


Vivid in Black and White

by Fxckxxp



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, And I just can’t write enough slow burns, And it’s not as prolonged as bwabof I won’t put you through that again, And the slow burn doesn’t last forever, Angst with a Happy Ending, Because there's plenty of kissing!!!, Bisexual Magnus, Coffee rimming (THIS IS NOT WHAT IT SOUNDS LIKE), Everyone is gay always, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Feelings™, Flirting, Fluff, Fluffy fluffy sweet friendship between Isak and Eskild, Føkboy Julian Dahl is at it again, Isak is #sadandhorny, Isak is yet again an emotional masochist, Light Angst, Lots and lots of sexual tension, M/M, Marijuana, Mild Sexual Content, Pining, Slow Burn, So. Many. Kisses., Some quality fluff, an emotional slow burn, but like, mentions of bipolar disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-04 22:42:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 62,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12177933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxckxxp/pseuds/Fxckxxp
Summary: In a Hei Briskeby video prank taken too far, Isak meets Even for the first time down on one knee—asking for his hand in marriage.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have some thank yous to sort through before we get started!
> 
> First—the biggest thanks to [Viki](http://tarjeiandhenrik.tumblr.com/), who came up with [this super super sweet and cute prompt](http://tarjeiandhenrik.tumblr.com/post/164980256958/au-where-even-is-dared-by-the-balloon-squad-to) and let me run free with it! It’s been insanely fun to write.
> 
> Second—thanks to the best beta I’ve ever fucking had, [Mackenzie!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EvensDramaticShenanigans/pseuds/EvensDramaticShenanigans) (And you should totally go read her stuff, ok? Because it’s cute and hot and sweet and filled with so much tension I just. GO READ IT.)
> 
> And last—to [LiliMane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LiliMane/pseuds/LiliMane), who let’s me scream at her and who makes posts [like this](https://isxev.tumblr.com/post/165487693763/if-you-want-a-professional-review-of-your-fic-let) and who keeps me from doing stupid shit. Without you, I probably would have spiraled into a pit of self-doubt and never posted this fic at all. (You should go read her stuff, too, by the way—unless you hate laughing, in which case get out of my house.)
> 
> So here we go, the FakeDating!AU this fandom _surely_ needs another one of and I never thought I’d write.
> 
> If playlists are your thing, [I made one for this fic!](https://open.spotify.com/user/12168089246/playlist/0oz7ebwFRbSKcETZz5Ga75) Featuring lots of Bad Suns as always, because they just understand feelings™. Give it a follow, and let me know what songs you dig! The title of this fic is taken from Gemini, by HYDDE—the first track and kind of the anthem for this whole thing.
> 
> Enjoy, lovelies!

Life gets 50% easier for Isak when he comes out to his mom. It jumps another 50% when she finally admits she needs help, gets that help, and starts to live a normal life again. Which should add up to 100%, right? 

In theory, yes, in reality, no—Isak has a weird formula for happiness. 

_In theory,_ Isak’s life is perfect. He actually talks to his mom on a daily basis now, and it’s everything he’s ever wanted—everything he never remembered missing. She listens to him. She understands him. She doesn’t judge him. They disagree on some things, sure—they always have—but it’s a support system he never realized he needed again. She’s even got a boyfriend, and Isak surprisingly doesn’t hate the guy. They met at church, and although that’s something Isak likes to pretend still isn’t happening, he’s actually nice and kind and so good for Marianne. 

The only thing Isak might put past him is he hates Isak’s dad, and well—okay. Because fine, Isak would be lying if he said he wasn’t harboring any resentment, either. Isak’s father is distant, like always, and while his attempts to bridge the gap seem fruitless and half-hearted, Isak knows that he’s just a basic white dude with the emotional capacity of an egg. So really, while embarrassingly pathetic, his dad is trying. It’s just up to Isak to let him in. And he has been—baby step by baby step. There’s just still a long way to go.

He’s on his third year of his undergraduate degree—straight A’s like it’s a god damn walk in the park, because, well, it is. While he’s not looking forward to 7 more years of school to finish his masters in veterinary medicine, he’s lucky to have found something he loves—he’s also lucky to have Sana right by his side, too.

So yeah. _In theory,_ Isak’s life is perfect.

 _In reality,_ it’s missing something. He pretends to not know what it is, but endless, meaningless Grindr hookup after endless, meaningless Grindr hookup might give you a hint.

“Yes,” Isak agrees with a huff to his mom on the other line. He’s kept track of how many words he’s said so far in the past thirty minutes: 7. Four of them being _yes._ The public courtyard he’s sitting in is filled with people busying about the lunch hour, and if he’s being honest, he can only hear about half of the words she’s saying—her voice already muffled through the phone. It’s whatever, though. This isn’t the first time she’s called to bitch and moan about his half-sister Lea’s wedding, so he knows the spiel already. He tries to tell himself his mom talking at him a million miles a minute is better than her not talking at all. He gets it, though. She’s stressed.

“I can’t believe they went off and eloped,” she complains, drifting off into yet another rant about it. “At least they’re hosting a reception. You’re coming, right? You took the day off work?”

“Yes,” Isak assures. 8.

He’s barely paying attention—actually, he’s actively avoiding eye-contact at all costs with a guy he hooked up with two days ago across the courtyard, so he’s not paying attention _at all,_ really. It’s not like they’ve been texting—the guy probably doesn’t even remember him, seeing as Isak was the one bending him over and pressing him face first into the pillow. It was the classic _wanna fuck? sure._ message on Grindr and a muffled thanks and goodbye as Isak left without so much as a glance back over his shoulder.

It isn’t until a guy maybe a year or two older than Isak appears in front of him, saying, “Hey, I have a very important question for you,” that Isak’s focus snaps back to attention and his heart drops.

His mind races for how he might know the guy—because in Isak’s world, tall, attractive men don’t just appear out of nowhere, flinging questions at him. _Fuck. Did I hook up with him, too?_

He shakes that idea right out of his head. He would have _definitely_ remembered. He’s the kind of hot that Isak would switch things up for. He’d let this guy do whatever he wanted to him, to be honest. His face looks like a Roman statue, carved straight from marble. His hair is floppy and blonde, and Isak can’t tell if he was just blessed in the genes department or if the cut and color cost $200. His eyes, though. Even from a good meter and a half away Isak can see the whole god damn ocean in them.

The boy starts to sink—right down on one knee in front of Isak—and to his horror, pulls a little black velvet box from the pocket of his jean jacket.

Immediately, Isak knows it’s a prank. And it’s not just from the five boys laughing and filming—one with an actual camera and the other four with their phones—from the other side of the courtyard that makes Isak think so. No. This is a prank because life hates Isak and wants to embarrass the hell out of him.

If there is literally anything he never wants to be, it’s the center of attention. 

Except, well, maybe in bed. He likes being the center of attention in bed.

He’s all but forgotten his phone, now resting in his hand on his lap and he thinks he can hear his mom asking, “hello?” loudly multiple times on the other end—her voice carrying to the air outside.

The guy cracks a smile—a smile so heartbreaking it should be illegal. “Will you marry me?”

Laughter is just threatening to burst out of this dude, like he is so fucking funny—but Isak sees his smile drop almost immediately into something more of concern. Isak tells himself the heat of his face (and presumably visible blush) has nothing to do with it. That he’s not blushing out of embarrassment or out of how cute this guy is, okay? His face is hot and patchy because he’s angry.

Why is he always the butt of the joke? Just hookup material? Never taken seriously? As if a neon sign is affixed to his forehead at all times, flashing _Hey! I’m a human disaster!_

By this point, they’ve gathered a small crowd and more than a few turning heads. There are others, now—strangers—with their phones out.

Isak leans in, face close to this guy’s and he’s silently cursing for being so attractive and also kind of a dick for getting his rocks off with his friends by putting strangers—strangers like Isak who hate to be put on the spot—in awkward situations. _On film,_ mind you—to not only have everyone in this courtyard laugh at but everyone on the internet as well. “If I say yes, will you leave me alone?”

The guy looks a little defeated, but smiles kindly and nods his head.

Isak places his phone on his lap, clasps his hands in front of him just for the fucking dramatics, and puts on his best fake smile. It’s laced with a little venom that he can’t seem to shake off. He sighs fondly, trying to make his eyes sparkle. “Yes.”

Isak hears screaming on the other end of the phone he’s abandoned in his lap. He makes out the words _engaged_ and _Isak_ and _fiancé_ in what is undoubtedly his mother’s excited voice. In a panic, without even saying goodbye, he hangs up.

This whole ordeal must have gone on longer than the literal seconds it’s seemed like to Isak, because the crowd lets out a collective breath and there’s clapping and cheering. Isak doesn’t know what Even does with the ring box—must have slipped it back into his pocket, probably void of a ring in the first place—but the next thing he knows is his face is being cupped with warm hands and a kiss with barely puckered lips due to this guy’s smile is being pressed right onto him; right onto his mouth.

Isak freezes. He hasn’t kissed anybody in a long, long time. Probably not since high-school, when hooking up was just making out at parties. But he doesn’t go to parties that often anymore and he’s not going to kiss his Grindr hookups, okay? And it’s not because he’s in denial about liking dudes like some homophobic asshole, because that is the farthest thing from the truth, it’s because kissing is… special. Kissing is something you do with your _boyfriend,_ with someone you _love._ Not with your one-time Grindr fuck you pray to never see again.

This fucking guy, though. This fucking guy is actually starting to slide his lips against Isak’s and ask for something more—for a show. He nips at Isak’s bottom lip and slides his tongue into brush Isak’s when he opens his mouth to gasp. And it feels good— _it feels so good_ —so Isak finds himself standing from the bench and kissing him back—one hand tangled in this guy’s ridiculously soft hair and one hand on the small of his back, tucking him in a little closer. Isak’s sure he lets out a little noise at one point when the guy makes no move to stop him, actually pressing into his hips and _god, okay, that’s enough._ Isak pops off after what seems like too long because he’s starting to get turned on now.

The courtyard has returned to bustling—no one paying them any mind—and the five boys who were recording are now beside them. Wide-eyed with those kinds of smiles that are half-amused, half _what-the-fuck._ One of them—he’s got buzzed hair with a hard-part and a killer smile—looks at Isak’s mystery proposer (fiancé now, technically?) with raised eyebrows and then turns his attention to Isak.

“Thanks for being a good sport,” he chuckles, handing Isak something.

He takes it. It’s a sticker—black and circular with _Hei Briskeby_ written on it in a yellow font Isak can barely read. He actually only knows what it says because of the YouTube logo below it, their channel name is written again in small, white, plain type next to it. 

“I’m Elias,” the guy who just handed him the sticker announces. “This is Yousef, Mutta, Mikael, Adam…” he trails, pointing behind him just lazy enough to the rest of the guys that Isak doesn’t really get a good sense of who’s who, “and this is Even,” he finishes, clapping the guy beside Isak on the shoulder. “We’re Hei Briskeby,” he smiles.

“Isak,” Isak nods, pursed lips hiding nervous laughter as he bobs his head towards everyone.

A guy pokes his head over Elias’s shoulder—Mikael, Isak thinks, if Elias’s gesture was somewhat correct. “Obviously this was a prank video,” he laughs. “But we want to make sure it’s okay with you before we post it.”

Isak stares down at the sticker and agrees with a shoulder shrug, shoving it into his pocket.

“Well, thanks, Isak,” probably Yousef says, patting Isak on the shoulder and turning away with the rest of the guys.

“Like! Subscribe! We’ll be posting it in about a week!” Elias spins halfway, calling over his shoulder with a wave.

Even’s a step behind them, walking backwards with his eyes on Isak. He doesn’t say anything, just nods his head once, causing his hair to bounce in the breeze before he turns his body to face front.

He gives Isak a little smile over his shoulder. Isak gives him one back.

 

———

 

Between hanging up on his mom and taking his phone back out of his pocket after the guys from Hei Briskeby leave, Isak’s staring at 17 missed calls. All from his mother.

When Isak does manage to call her back, spread out on his back like a starfish over his comforter at home, she picks up before the first ring ends. But no amount of coercion will make her see the truth, and it doesn’t help that she won’t let Isak get a word in edgewise. She is utterly and totally convinced that Isak is engaged—both excited beyond belief that both of her babies are getting _married_ and angry as hell for keeping this guy a secret from her.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a boyfriend?” She demands on the other line. She’s too endeared to sound anything but, but her voice carries a frustrated undertone. “A boyfriend so serious he _asked you to marry him?”_

“Mom—” Isak starts but is cut off.

“You haven’t thought about a date, right? I’m going to need a recovery period after Lea’s reception. Are you going to invite your father? When can I finally meet this boy—”

Isak pinches the bridge of his nose, turning the phone’s receiver up so he can sigh loudly without being heard. Why does she have to ask so many questions—and how does she expect Isak to answer any of them when she won’t even give him a second to _explain_ himself?

“Mom—MOM,” he cuts off her rambling. “I told you. It was just a prank. I don’t even know him.”

“Very funny, Isak.”

His phone beeps twice, letting him know another call is coming in. It’s Sana.

“Mom, I have to go—” he switches calls immediately, glad for the out. He takes one giant breath before asking, “hello?” into the other line.

“So I was thinking we should set up dates to study and—” Sana’s voice is rapid fire.

God, can no one say hello? Or hold their breath for two god damn seconds instead of murdering Isak by drowning him in words and thoughts? He’s never been _the listener_ in any group of friends ever, so he doesn’t understand why all of a sudden people think he is.

“Sana, I am literally going to hang up and never speak to you again if you don’t slow down,” Isak cuts her off, turning to sit on his bed now, fumbling with his _Introduction to Veterinary Anatomy and Physiology_ textbook on his desk—the class they share together and the one he presumes she’s rambling about to him.

They’ve actually known each other for quite some time—met all the way back at Nissen, but became fast friends at university. Isak would never admit it, but Sana being assigned as his biology partner in second year is one of the best things that’s ever happened to him.

“Isak, midterms are just around the corner and I am _not_ going to fall behind like I did last year,” she continues, switching her train of thought but ultimately ignoring him.

“You just want to piggyback off of my good grades—”

Sana groans. “No!”

“—Yes! You just don’t want to do any work and I’m the only person you trust to study with.”

“I’m hanging up.”

Isak smiles. “Admit it. Admit that I’m smarter than you. Admit that I’m the _master_ of studying—”

“Bye, Isak!”

Isak knows she’s joking—he can practically hear her smile on the other line. 

Sana doesn’t hang up. “I’m being serious,” she continues after a small beat of silence. 

“Ok,” Isak agrees. “We can study together, but only if you admit—”

“Bye, Isak!” This time it’s for real—she actually does hang up.

While never explicitly said, Isak knows that Sana knows he’s up for it. When they’re not studying, they communicate mostly through jokes, bad puns, teasing, and memes. They’ll make the hard plans later—dates and times and chapters and whatnot.

Isak smiles at his phone and flops back down onto his bed. He really should call his mom back, but instead, he rifles through his pocket and takes out the Hei Briskeby sticker—opening his YouTube app and searching for the channel.

They’ve got quite a few videos, and Isak unashamedly spends the next two hours watching them all. For the most part, they’re harmless and silly, made mostly for themselves. But they’ve got some fans—their channel has more than 40,000 subscribers. His heart sinks a little at that—the thought of 40,000 people watching him make a fool of himself. He smashes his eyes shut and prays to whoever is up there controlling the universe that they cut out the kiss.

 

———

 

If Isak really wants to get a jump on his homework, he’s doing a bad job.

Instead, he’s staring at an email he drafted an hour ago—wondering if the act of writing it is cathartic enough or if he should actually send it. He’s read it a thousand times over already, but he’s rereading it again, you know, just in case there’s a typo.

Although he highly doubts the Hei Briskeby boys would care if his email contains a typo. He wonders who would read it—Elias? Mikael? Even? He kind of hopes it’s Even. The email address is literally just _heibriskeby@gmail.com_ —so, in reality, they might not even check it.

It reads:

> _Hi boys,_

Boys? Ugh, who does Isak thinks he is? He deletes the greeting and starts over:

> _Hi,_
> 
> _It’s Isak. From the prank video you shot in the park yesterday. I was on the phone with my mom when it happened, and long story short she overheard and now thinks it’s real. She really thinks I’m engaged._
> 
> _I don’t even have a boyfriend—yet somehow I now have a fiancé. She even wants to meet him._
> 
> _Thanks to you, I am royally fucked._
> 
> _In all seriousness, though, I am excited to see the video._
> 
> _–Isak._

It sounds… alright? Maybe a bit too sarcastic; he doesn’t even know if they’ll respond, but he hits send anyway, dropping his phone on his desk and getting up to make (or, ask Eskild to make) dinner.

Before he makes it out of the room, though, his phone buzzes.

Out of sheer lack of willpower, he spins around to check. There’s no way anyone has responded to his email so fast, but his hopes deflate anyway when he see’s his mom’s contact on the screen. He slides open the messages.

> **MAMMA:**  
>  I don’t like this new habit of you hanging up on me  
>  You are bringing your handsome fiancé to dinner on Friday!  
>  I guess I don’t know if he’s handsome but if he’s with you I can only imagine he has to be  
>  Friday at 18:00  
>  I’m inviting everyone

Isak rolls his eyes and sets his phone back down, not in the mood to answer her right now.

Eskild’s in the kitchen with Linn, cups of tea in their hands as she sits at the table and he leans against the counter—something savory simmering on the stove.

“Pretty boy,” Eskild interrupts Linn mid-sentence as Isak walks into the room, focusing his attention on him, “Linn is trying to tell me Project Runway is the _best_ reality TV show,” he rolls his eyes animatedly, “will you please tell her that she’s wrong?”

Isak shoves Eskild out of the way and fumbles over to the stove, disinterested. He picks up the wooden spoon in the spoon rest and brings a bite of whatever’s in the pot to his lips. “Never seen it,” he mumbles over a mouthful. “What is this? It’s good.”

“It’s not for you,” Linn snaps.

“Linn, why can’t you be nice to Isak?” Eskild looks over at her. “You didn’t even make it. I did. It’s chicken noodle soup, Isak,” he focuses his attention to the stove, pointing. “Seriously, don’t you have eyes? Do you not know what chicken noodle soup looks like?”

“You only like each other because you’re both gay,” Linn pouts into her tea. “If you weren’t,” she rounds on Eskild, “you would hate Isak.”

“Linn, I am right here,” Isak says flatly, attention still on the soup. He tries not to take anything she says to heart. It’s a miracle she’s even out in the kitchen, so he’ll take what he can get.

“Speaking of gay,” Eskild hums, setting his tea on the counter with a twinkle in his eye, “I’m having someone over on Friday, so I need you two to be gone,” he waves, like he’s shooing them out now. “Linn, you can stay here if you promise to stay in your room,” he adds.

She nods in agreement.

“As for you,” Eskild bumps Isak’s hip with his own, almost knocking the spoon from his hand as he continues to eat out of the pot on the stove, “don’t you have plans? You’re not allowed to be here. You’re so restless—always roaming from your room to the bathroom to the living room to the kitchen—slamming doors. And you’re much prettier than I am, so I don’t want you to steal him.”

“I’m not going to steal him, Eskild,” Isak deadpans. “I’ll be gone anyway. I have dinner with my mom.”

Eskild’s face softens. “How is, uh, how is that going?”

Isak raises his eyebrows and nods his head twice with one of those smile frowns. “It’s great,” he says into another bite of soup, still standing by the stove. “I try to pretend that whole part just… never happened. It’s working so far. She wants to be a part of my life and she’s my mom, so.”

“But then you would have never met me,” Eskild preens, resting his head on Isak’s shoulder and rubbing his cheek into his sweater.

“That’s true,” Isak agrees. He tries not to indulge Eskild too much—but, well, it’s Eskild.

“I really do like him, though,” Eskild rounds out the conversation, head still on Isak’s shoulder while he looks over at Linn. “This guy. Like, more than just his face.”

Linn hums into her tea while Isak takes another bite, patting Eskild on the top of his head with his free hand.

Eskild sighs loudly and storms off to the cupboard, getting a bowl and a spoon which he then shoves at Isak. “Eat like a civilized person, please. We’re not animals.”

 

———

 

If phones could radiate evil, that’s what Isak’s would be doing—face down on his desk like it’s mocking him. He wants to pick it up and see if there are any notifications, specifically a _certain_ notification, but the longer he waits, the better the chances it might actually be there, right?

He doesn’t know why he’s so obsessed with getting a response. Maybe it’s just his subliminal, desperate attempt to let Even know that he’s single. And he may have been thinking about that kiss. (And he _may_ have thought about it in the shower this morning. It was hot, okay?) And if Isak is the only one who thought it was hot then he is seriously delusional.

With a frustrated sigh, his lack of willpower makes him turn his phone over, tapping the home button to light up the screen. There are texts from his mom, the group chat with the boys, a personal one from Jonas, a snap from Eva… and an email. He swipes that one open first.

It’s not a direct reply from Hei Briskeby to the email he sent earlier—which makes his shoulders slump—but after a scan through the whole thing, it’s even better. It’s from Even.

> **evenbechn@gmail.com:**
> 
> _Hi Isak,_
> 
> _Thanks for the email, and sorry about your mom! Hopefully she will come around soon, although I have to admit that is pretty funny. The video should be out in less than a week—maybe if you show her, she’ll come around?_
> 
> _–Even_

There’s not really much to respond to, but Isak finds himself tapping the reply arrow at the bottom of the message anyway.

> **valtersen.isak@gmail.com:**
> 
> _Hey, thanks for the response. I thought it was pretty funny until she wanted to meet him (you, I guess) this Friday._

The response is almost immediate, like they’re texting:

> **evenbechn@gmail.com:**
> 
> _If you’re up for it, that would be some hilarious material we could add to the end of our video. I can see it now—Millennial YouTube prank confuses hopelessly romantic mom: son caught in the crossfire._
> 
> _I don’t want to hurt your mom, though, but it sounds like she’s in good spirits about it all—I mean, she wants to meet me. ;)_
> 
> _If you don’t mind, that is._

Isak stares at his screen, the reply button already pressed—thinking of a way to not sound desperate as fuck. Before he can, though, another email from Even piggybacks off his previous one. It’s a phone number.

 

———

 

**TUESDAY—19:07**

> **EVEN:**  
>  Favorite color  
>  Favorite animal  
>  Favorite food  
>  GO
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Lol what?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  If we’re going to pull this off, I need to at least know the basics about you!

  


So, they may have been texting on and off the past few days. It’s not a big deal—they’re just two casual strangers who agreed to pretend to be engaged; halfway for YouTube likes and subscribes and halfway because Isak doesn’t know how to say no to a hot stranger—or how to say no to his mom.

When Isak thinks about it, tries to put it into words… yeah. Okay. It sounds crazy.

But now it’s been like this for the past twenty-four hours—him and Even progressing from introductions and exchanging favorites and least favorites and everything in between—and I guess, well, it’s actually happening. Even is actually going to come to dinner with Isak at his mom's and pretend to be engaged to him. Isak considers calling it off, because really, what the fuck, but he’s enjoying the company. Well, virtual company. Maybe a little too much. And while the circumstances aren’t ideal, it’s a promise to see Even again. 

Which—also—what the fuck. He barely knows the guy.

> **ISAK:**  
>  Blue  
>  Snake  
>  Cheese Toasties
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  A man of many words, I see  
>  Also… snakes?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  They’re cool!  
>  Like your favorite animal is so much better  
>  A dog  
>  Wow  
>  Original
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  If you hate dogs this isn’t going to work, Isak
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I don’t hate dogs  
>  Who hates dogs?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Evil people

**WEDNESDAY—23:29**

> **EVEN:**  
>  Biggest fear?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Woah  
>  Now we’re getting a little deep
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  We're technically supposed to be engaged, so, I would hope I knew my fiancé’s hopes and dreams and fears  
>  I can go first if you want
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Hmmm  
>  I’ll bite
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Losing control
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  So you’re a control freak?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I wouldn’t say THAT  
>  I just… I like to be in control
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Sounds kinky
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Wouldn’t you like to know  
>  Actually  
>  I feel like as your fake fiancé, I should know
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Nice try  
>  But I don’t think my mom’s going to grill you about my kinks
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Fair enough  
>  Your turn

Isak has many fears, actually, despite the confident, cool-guy mask he wears. He could go with something easy: Heights. Spiders. Clowns.

But if Isak’s being honest, it’s dying alone. Never finding the one. Growing old and grey with no one to actually grow old and grey with. Worrying he’s unlovable, and what it is about him that makes him hookup material and not boyfriend material. But god that sounds cheesy… even though it’s true.

As his thumb hovers over the keyboard to respond, because life just has to remind him of this exact fact, a push notification from Grindr appears at the top of his screen—he’s got a new message from someone. He reads what he can of it through the preview, his thumb inching its way up to tap it, but stops. He waits until the notification juts back up—gone—and he’s left with a blinking cursor in the text field of his messenger app.

> **ISAK:**  
>  Not being liked, I guess

It’s not a lie, it’s just… not exactly the whole truth.

**THURSDAY—11:44**

Isak’s been glued to his phone for 55 hours—and he would call himself out on it if Even wasn’t just as invested, replying rapid fire like he is. It’s half questions, half answers—part banter and part memes. A piece of him is hoping something might go wrong: Even forgot he has other plans. Someone gets sick. His mom cancels dinner—then they can meet again on different terms. As friends. As flirty, touchy, friends. Hell, Isak’s actually typed out the message several times, too chicken to send it. _Hey Even, so sorry, but mom’s canceled dinner. Maybe we can still meet up another time, though?_ Because if he does… it kills the chance. The chance that they will see each other again. Right now, it’s set in stone. And that’s just not a risk he’s willing to take.

> **ISAK:**  
>  What’s my half-sister’s name?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Lea
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  My mom’s?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Marianne!
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Where did we meet?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  At school
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  And what do I study?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Veterinary medicine 
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Ok  
>  You pass
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>    
>  What is my favorite film?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  You would start with that question  
>  Pretty Woman  
> 
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Don’t hate  
>  Where was I born?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  In the passenger seat of your family car, on the way to the hospital
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  And?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  And when your dad accidentally totaled the car three years later, he took the seat out and it’s in his garage now  
>  God you guys are weird
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  What did I just say about not hating?  
>  Don’t pretend like you don’t love it  
>  I know your type, Isak Valtersen  
>  You like weirdos
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Whatever  
>  I guess we’re really doing this?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I guess we’re really doing this  
>  I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 17:45  
>  Fiancé  
> 
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Gross  
> 

———

 

Isak’s _not_ dressed up, okay? He hasn’t styled his hair. He _definitely_ didn’t put on some of Eskild’s cologne. He’s _not_ trying to look good.

In fact, he’s trying to look so bad that he backtracks back into the bathroom after taking a step out to ruffle his hair.

“Damn, pretty boy,” Eskild pauses in the living room, giving Isak a quick up-down before returning to frantically straighten the pillows and light some candles and spray air freshener. “You're supposed to be gone.”

“I’m leaving soon,” Isak checks his phone. It’s 17:51. Even is late.

“Well, can’t you leave _now?”_ Eskild shoots—whirling his head back and forth between Isak and the door when there’s a knock. “Fuck! Isak! Hide in your room!”

Isak cocks an eyebrow at Eskild, a nervous smile on his face as he crosses his arms in confident defiance. “Why can’t I meet him?”

“Isak,” Eskild warns, one quick foot after the other in Isak’s direction as he literally shoves Isak back into his room. “And don’t come out!”

Isak ignores him, stopping the door Eskild’s trying to shove closed with one hand. “How about I leave as he comes in, okay? It can just be in passing. I don’t even have to say hi, if you don’t want.”

Eskild ponders—tongue under his lips and over his teeth as he looks up. “Fine,” he agrees. “You can say hi, just don’t stop to talk.”

Isak nods his head with wide eyes, silently communicating to Eskild that he’s being way too dramatic. He moves to the front door, where there’s another knock—Eskild’s mystery visitor being forgotten.

Isak lets Eskild open the door to greet him, standing awkwardly off to the side while he waits for…. Elias to move out of the way.

They make brief eye-contact over Eskild’s shoulder when they hug hello, and Isak can’t tell if Elias’s eyes flicker to do a double take. They’ve only met that one time in the park a few days ago—probably countless other prankees in line before Isak—so he’s hoping he’s not so memorable. But if Elias’s weary glare is any indication, he might be.

Isak nods a quick hello—looking at the oh so interesting carpet. “I’m just leaving,” he announces, taking a step backward to take in this weird scene one last time, hoisting a thumb over his shoulder before he spins back around.

Eskild all but slams the door behind him.

> **EVEN:**  
>  Here

Isak gulps, pressing his phone to his chest and wondering if he should dawdle or sprint down the stairs.

When he steps outside, Even’s profile is illuminated by his phone in the driver’s seat of the car, his fingers taking their time to type out another message. Isak hesitates for a moment before opening the door, wondering if Even dropped Elias off. He thinks better to ask, though—Eskild seems pretty adamant on keeping this guy a secret.

“You look nice,” Isak blurts when he rounds through the door on the passenger side, Even’s face turning up from his phone and lighting into a grin at the sight of him. And it really is the truth—he does look nice. Unlike their first encounter, Even’s hair is styled—with what? Magic? It still looks incredibly soft, like gravity has no effect on it. He’s traded his jean jacket for a dark-grey button-down layered under a black coat and yellow scarf.

Isak’s heart catches for a second when they meet eyes—when Even smiles that smile—in a way it never has before. Usually, when he’s getting undressed with some guy, kissing his way up their thighs, his heart is beating frantically for release.

But now, it just full on stops. Isak tries to count for how long—wondering if maybe he’s gone into cardiac arrest and if there’s a calm way to announce that they might have to postpone their plans so he can go to the hospital.

“I’m about to meet my fiancé’s mom,” Even jokes, putting the car into drive and his turn signal on to get back into traffic, “of course I want to look nice.” He waggles his eyebrows and puts his arm around Isak’s headrest before glancing over his shoulder towards him, waiting for the line of cars to dissipate so they can start moving. “You do too,” he turns, making eye contact for a second before pulling out. “Look nice.”

The drive to his mom’s isn’t long, and Isak can get a good sense of who’s here by the cars in the driveway and around the block. His mom’s boyfriend. Her friend from church he’s met a few times. Lea and her husband and her friends—there’s more people here than Isak imagined, and the emphasis of the evening is definitely on the _party_ part of dinner party.

He’s not sure if their awkward and stunted banter on the drive there is because every other second Isak’s had to give Even directions, or because fuck. This is actually happening.

“You look tense,” Even smiles sympathetically over at him, slinging his arm back around the passenger side headrest when they park. “You have to shake all the nerves out,” he says, raising his eyebrows.

Isak’s not sure if he’s imagining it—okay he’s definitely not at this point, but Even is starting to wiggle his arms and neck and head and somehow face, smiling at Isak’s horrified expression and clapping a hand on his shoulder to get Isak to do the same.

Isak covers his face with his hands, dragging the skin of his cheeks and eyelids down with them as he laughs into an eye-roll. Like who the hell is this dork.

“See!” Even shimmies, pouting his lips and alternating his shoulders in what might be some sort of weird dance slash mating call. “You’re already smiling. This is going to be fun and hilarious.”

“Sure,” Isak agrees with a quick nod, shoulders trying to shrug but bouncing heavy with his laughter. “Wait—” he places a hand on Even, who’s starting to open his door and move out of the car. “I can see my mom staring at us from the window—” He gets out, jogging around the front of the vehicle to open Even’s door for him. “I can’t let her see me be anything but a gentleman,” he adds with a sarcastic smile, letting Even unfold his long arms and legs on the way out before he shuts it.

Even grabs Isak’s hand, placing a kiss to his palm—for show, of course, his eyes flicker over to Isak’s mom in the window, still staring. He squeezes it and doesn’t let go, prompting Isak to lead the way.

The one thing they didn’t talk about, which has now become apparent as they walk towards the house, is how much physical contact is seemingly okay for fake fiancés. The little spot on the inside of Isak’s hand is still buzzing with nerves—as if suddenly more have appeared there just to make the sensation sting. It doesn’t help that their clasped hands are burning on top of it. Maybe his whole hand will just fall off.

Isak doesn’t understand why all of a sudden it’s such a big deal. He’s touched guys before—and a lot more intimately than this. _So what’s so fucking different right now?_ he thinks, willing his palms not to sweat.

Isak’s mom is there to open the door before they’ve even knocked, glancing from Isak to Even in what is an amused, knowing smile. Knowing what? Isak has no idea—either she’s enamored by Even’s good looks (and, well, okay) or she can see right through them. Their hands are intertwined but Isak’s afraid they look too out of place. He’s nervous, but he leans into Even’s side. For show.

It’s all for show.

“Marianne,” Even leans in for a one-armed hug, still not letting go of Isak’s hand. “Isak’s told me so much about you.”

She leans back, skeptical, but hugs Even regardless. “He’s told me nothing about you.”

Despite that little hiccup, where Isak grits his teeth like crazy in an attempt to smile semi-genuinely at his mother, the sarcasm on her end dwindles for the night. Isak curses it, but it’s also where he gets his attitude from, so. He can’t really complain without being a hypocrite.

“Let’s get a drink,” Isak mumbles, dragging Even inside past his mom. “What would you like?” He’s asking but he’s already starting to pour a second beer for Even.

“Oh,” Even ducks down to whisper, as if not to offend. “I don’t drink that often. Control.” He winks.

Isak doesn’t think much of it. “More for me.”

It’s hard to say if Even flips a switch for this whole evening since Isak hardly knows him past texting. Maybe his body language is always warm and inviting and intimate. Maybe his presence is always an anchor—the familiar face you’re drawn to in a sea of people for safety. It’s hard to know this, but he’s about ten times more comfortable than Isak, although Isak would never show that. In fact, the only person who can maybe tell he’s uneasy is Even—his hands never leaving his arms. Shoulders. Sides. Hips. Feeling every twitch on Isak. 

Even can talk to anyone, it seems, and his charm certainly comes off more as dorky through the phone. In person, though, even Isak is half-awed by it. Luckily, since Even seems to be the guest of honor, most of the questions from Isak’s mom and her friends and her guests seem to be directed towards him. And he responds and deflects politely when necessary, never missing a beat. He’s remembered everything Isak’s told him—and Isak can only assume that means he has an excellent memory or maybe their messages held some merit. Isak doesn’t think he’s that interesting, but, well. Maybe. 

And Isak's only nervous because he’s never done this before, okay? Never lied to his mom and his mom’s friends and random people he’s never met before about how _in love_ he is with his "fiancé." Despite this, they actually make quite the dynamic duo, and even after two beers, Isak’s still able to remember almost everything Even’s told him. He brags about Even’s degree in Biological and Pre-Medical Illustration (although he still doesn’t quite get what that is), brags about how handsome he is, and brags about how they’re taking a vacation in Iceland together during winter break. (He made that one up on the fly, earning one “bonus point” from Even under his breath—which is a thing now, I guess. This imaginary point system they’ve made up over the course of the evening to congratulate each other on being disastrous liars.)

“I’m so proud of him.” Even hums to Marianne, her boyfriend, and Lea—drinks in their hands as they part from the crowd of people in the living room to get some space. They’re standing in the kitchen to wait for dinner to finish in the oven. “I seriously can’t believe how smart he is,” Even adds, “although he’ll never admit it.” They’re already pressed together side by side, Even’s arm around Isak’s shoulders and Isak’s resting at the top of Even’s hip across his back. But with a slow wink after he says it, Even’s using his free hand to cup Isak sweetly by the cheek and press a quick and soft peck to his lips—causing everyone else to look down with blushing smiles so the happy couple can enjoy the moment privately.

Isak does a nervous swallow to hide his hitching breath, letting the moment pass obliviously—gone before he even has time to register it.

Before he even has time to revel in it. To savor it. To enjoy it. To memorize it. 

He wants it back, this thing that he can't quite recall if he's ever had. This feeling. Surely he would have remembered something like this? This softness full of light and laughter that's got to be more than the few beers he's had. Again, he doesn’t understand why things feel so different.

So yeah, he wants it back. And he'll do whatever it takes to get it. 

It’s got to be convincing, though, right? So he leans in a little, tightening his grip on Even and chasing his lips—smiling when Even dodges with a playful smirk but ultimately lets Isak bump their noses together before setting still and letting him steal another kiss.

It’s tender. It’s soft. It’s unlike any kiss Isak’s shared with anyone ever. 

And it’s only a little heartbreaking—the fact that he’s craved this for so long (and so desperately—because how do you crave something you’ve never tasted?) and now it’s finally happening under false pretenses.

That moment in the kitchen is a slippery slope that sets the scene for the rest of the night, and Isak’s lost track of how many kisses he's stolen. How many pecks on the cheek Even plants on him. How many jokes and imaginary "points" are whispered to each other—lips brushing and lingering on the soft skin behind Isak’s ear when Even takes a moment to peel away from the secret. 

Is this what it's like? To move out of hookup material and into boyfriend material? Is this the other side of things he's missed out on? Touches and kisses and looks that say more than _I want your body._ They say _I want your soul and whatever you're willing to give me._ It's undoubtedly better—whatever this other side of things is.

 _Fulfilling_ sounds like the right word to Isak. To have someone there beside you. To kiss your cheek and whisper sweet nothings into your ear and be proud of you. To be there forever, not just for the night. 

Isak reminds himself it's all for show. 

 

———

 

Even holds Isak’s hand all the way back to the car, unlocking their fingers only after making the first turn back onto the main road. They both let out a collective breath—faces painted with _holy shit we really just pulled that off_ grins.

Even resumes what Isak can only assume is his usual driving position—arm draped around the back of the passenger seat with his other hand manning the wheel. “This is going to be so good,” he laughs, taking another turn towards Isak’s to drop him off. “I hope it goes viral.”

Right. Hei Briskeby. The video. Reality.

Isak tries to laugh along with him, the tension creeping back through his bloodstream and tightening his muscles.

There are two sides here, Isak realizes. Black and white—not even a gray line to cross between the two—the difference between them stark and unmoving. There is what he has, and what he wants. At this point, it seems futile with Even, but he’s the one who gives him the possibility. That shows him what could potentially be his—this piece of reality that Isak could fit into his theoretically perfect life and make it, well, as perfect as it can get.

It doesn’t really matter which color he chooses to assign to his real life, although black seems fitting. And once Even kissed his palm, Isak leading the way inside to the party, he crossed over into the white. This other side of life he didn’t know was missing—he didn’t know he could have.

The whole ride home, he can feel the white bleed out of him—out of his lips and cheeks and shoulders and fingers. Back into the black. When Even pulls up in front of his apartment, he’s fully back into it.

It doesn’t mean he’s dismal, though. Him and Even are still sharing grins and giggles—it was a fun night, after all. But that tightness about them, constricting the air from Isak’s lungs—remains. No one knowing quite what to say. No one knowing if this might be their last encounter. Isak’s hesitant to get out, his seatbelt taken off and one hand lingering on the car door, but Even isn’t forcing him to go. 

“Well, thanks,” Isak breaks the silence, eyes flickering to his lap with a smile when he says it.

Even shifts the car back into drive, foot on the break like he’s ready to go. “Anytime.” He’s leaning forward with a grin—the high of the last few hours not wearing off.

And it all must have happened a lot quicker than Isak realizes, although he feels like they’ve been sitting in this car for hours—but here Even is, leaning in and kissing Isak goodbye. 

But before Isak even has the brain capacity to realize what’s happening and kiss him back, Even is pulling away and apologizing. It’s short—maybe only a few cells of their lips touching before anyone grasps what’s happening. What this is.

“Sorry,” Even gasps—eyes wide with a few disbelieving blinks. He runs a hand through his hair, then over his eyes and down his face to cover his mouth. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats through his hand. “Just, habit. From the rest of the night.”

Isak clears his throat—car door open now and a foot on the pavement. “It’s chill.”

He feels himself slip into the white. There’s no grey, though. No gradient to ease him into it. It’s a flash, no longer than a blink—and when Even leans back, pulling away, he’s back to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk with me on [tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/) Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

It takes about two days for Isak to slip back into his theoretically perfect life and pretend everything is fine—to forget the reality he lived through for one night, the reality he now knows is a possibility: warm hands and lips and touches that sing love songs, not just lust songs.

But old habits die hard, and he’d do anything now to feel something that even closely resembles that. Which means back to Grindr hookups.

Isak does something he doesn’t normally do when he falls back into this pattern, which is stay the night. Julian, he thinks the guy’s name is? He really can’t remember. It’s a blur of skin on skin—right to the point—but Isak lets Julian kiss him a little, although it’s void of anything he’s searching for. It’s hot, sure—full of tongue (okay, maybe a little too much tongue) and moans and bitten lips. And it’s nice, he guesses, but Isak’s still in the black.

When his phone buzzes around five in the morning, Isak twisted up in the sheets with his back to Julian, he’s wondering who the hell is up this early. I mean, he’s up, sure, but that’s only so he can sneak out in time—god forbid this Julian guy might want to make him breakfast. He knows he isn’t going to feel that flash of white he’s fiercely searching for on Grindr—but maybe, just maybe, he can feel it for a night.

His eyes are still blurry when he swipes his phone open, the messages coming up on his blinding screen. He turns the brightness down, looking over his shoulder to check that Julian is still asleep before he cautiously turns himself up to sit on the bed—legs hanging off the side with bare feet planted to the hardwood floor next to his clothes.

To his surprise, it’s from Even. There’s a link to the Hei Briskeby video, now edited and uploaded for the world to see.

> **EVEN:**  
>  How did your mom take the news?

He stares at the message, dumbfounded. Isak really didn’t expect to hear from Even again, although he’s drafted countless messages to him in the past few days—too chicken to send. And in the aftermath of it all, too consumed by this battle of black and white, he still hasn’t told his mom (reminded his mom, more like—she’s so stubborn) it’s all fake.

> **ISAK:**  
>  I haven’t told her yet. About to now that we have the video. It might convince her.
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Does she ask about me? 

Isak huffs a laugh to himself, his heart suddenly light, and sets his phone down so he can put his jeans back on and quietly slip out.

Before he’s halfway out the door to Julian’s room, praying no roommates are lingering in the kitchen for an awkward hello and goodbye, Isak looks over his shoulder at him. A stomach sleeper. There’s drool on his pillow. A soft snore or two.

And no. There’s no white.

On the walk back to his apartment, he types a message to his mom above the video link he’s about to send. Isak can’t seem to find the words to say, though—he keeps erasing the first sentence again and again, ultimately just tapping _send_ to forward her the video with no context. He hasn’t even watched it yet (and maybe he should do that), so he’s not quite sure what he’s in for. 

Maybe he’s afraid to. Actually, yes, that’s exactly what it is. He might never watch it, to be honest. Never watch Even get down on one knee. Kiss him silly. Expose him to this world of feelings he could have honestly lived the rest of his life never knowing existed. Ruin him entirely.

It only takes a moment for her to respond. The video must not be that long.

> **MAMMA:**  
>  Oh my!   
>  Someone got it on camera, that’s so cute!  
>  Is he coming to Lea’s reception with you?

Isak throws his head back in a sigh, smashing his eyes shut as he digs for his key in the pocket of his coat to let himself into the apartment.

He can’t find it, though—flushing his body against the door out of annoyed disappointment and lightly bashing his head into the concrete wall a few times. Reluctantly, he pushes the buzzer, hoping Eskild won’t kill him.

Remarkably, Eskild answers. “Hello?” Isak hears through the buzzer.

Isak presses the button to talk. “Eskild? It’s Isak. I forgot my key.”

He hears a groan on the other end, and then the unlocking click of the door to the building. Eskild’s waiting for him at the top of the stairs, in nothing but his boxers and a robe, rushing Isak inside and shoving him all the way into his room. Isak lets him, mostly out of confusion, and he’s spun around in the doorway by the shoulder to Eskild saying, “stay in here until a reasonable hour.” He wants to slam the door, Isak can tell, but shuts it softly.

And that sucks, because Isak really has to take a piss.

He also doesn’t know what _a reasonable hour_ is, so around eight he really can’t take it anymore—quietly opening his door and making way for the bathroom just down the hall. He can hear voices in the kitchen—Eskild and… not Linn. It’s another guy. He pauses a moment outside of the bathroom, just far enough away to not be seen, yet close enough to barely make out what they’re saying.

“I think my ride’s here,” the mystery voice says. Isak wants to bet it’s Elias, unless Eskild hasn’t settled on him yet. That doesn’t seem to be the case, though, if their conversation in the kitchen a few days ago meant anything.

“C’mere,” Eskild says, chairs scraping against the tile of the kitchen floor and feet tapping to get up. Isak thinks he hears the sounds of two lips popping off a peck. “I love you, baby.”

“I love you too,” the voice says back.

Isak’s heart twists into a mixture of jealousy and fondness for Eskild.

But he remembers something, hand releasing the bathroom door knob and feet turning back towards his room. Isak rushes to the window, moves aside his curtains just an inch, and sees Even waiting outside in the same car he used to pick Isak up in two days ago. He’s staring at his phone like last time—the glow making his face visible.

Isak takes his own out, Even’s message waiting to be replied to, and lips curling into a smile.

> **ISAK:**  
>  Update: told mom. Forwarded her the video and everything. She still doesn’t believe me, and is actually more excited now that someone got it on camera. She asked if you’re coming to Lea’s wedding reception with me.

He sees Even shift focus on his phone, one thumb swiping—then both tapping.

> **EVEN:**  
>  Well, am I?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I don’t know, are you?
> 
> EVEN:  
>  I guess I am  
> 

Isak’s smiling like an idiot at his screen, and to only make matters worse for his tightening heart, he sees Even smiling, too. And then he’s turning his head and shifting the car into drive while Elias gets in the passenger side.

Isak raises his eyebrows and purses his lips knowingly, draping the curtain back closed and making his way to the bathroom and then kitchen.

Where he finds Eskild.

“Good morning,” Isak hums, flashing a smug smile in Eskild’s direction while he pours himself a cup of coffee. “Who was… uh. Who was here?”

Eskild shoots Isak a death glare, cleaning up the mess from breakfast. “My boyfriend.” He’s swatting the strawberry Isak snatched from the table out of his hand, almost to his lips. “Not for you,” Eskild scolds. He looks guilty, though, so before he turns around he shoves it back into Isak’s mouth—maybe in an attempt to shut him up.

“And why can’t I meet him for more than five seconds?” Isak asks with a full mouth, chasing the strawberry down with a sip of coffee—his eyes wide and playful over the rim. It’s rare when he gets to be the nosy one with Eskild, so he’s milking it for all it’s worth.

Eskild’s shoulders slump with a sigh, his head flinging back in frustration as he moves dishes from the sink to the washer. “If you must know,” he spins, back resting on the edge of the counter—his hands planted firmly on the ledge. “He’s not…”

Isak raises his eyebrows over another sip.

“He’s not—” Eskild continues with an eye roll and a hand wave. “—Out.”

Isak lowers his drink from his mouth—like a punch in the gut. His brain was somewhere else entirely—maybe Eskild being embarrassed of actually having a relationship or _Elias_ being embarrassed of just Eskild in general (that seemed more plausible)—but not this. Somewhere he’s been before.

“Oh,” Isak fumbles with his coffee cup, setting it on the counter to look Eskild in the eyes. “I didn’t know.”

“So please don’t say anything,” Eskild begs.

“I don’t even know him—” Isak defends, only a little bit of a lie. 

“But you know _about_ him,” Eskild cuts Isak off. “Which is a lot more than what other people know. And you’ve seen him.”

Isak nods his head in solidarity—questions rising to the surface. He wonders if Even knows. Surely he must, since he drops him off. He also wonders if Even’s made the connection since Isak lives here too, but gets lost in his train of thought when he remembers Even doesn’t know Eskild. Unless maybe he knows about him.

“I won’t say anything,” Isak promises.

 

———

 

Isak drops his bag on the table in the back row by Sana—a tradition. Class starts in about ten minutes.

She’s got a smirk on her face when Isak sits down, her eyes gleaming like she knows something he doesn’t. He does a double take at her, raising his eyebrows in anticipation. She obviously wants to say something.

But since she just has to be mysterious, she turns away to open her notebook beside her laptop with nothing more than a, “check your phone.”

Isak pulls it out of his pocket—there are a few items to sort through: a text from his mom. A text from Even. The group chat with the boys as well as a few snaps. And a notification from Sana on his screen—he swipes hers open first to see the same link Even sent him earlier—the Hei Briskeby video.

“Have you seen it?” She asks, leaning into him to peer at his phone and then back up at him with a playful smile. She looks about to burst with something. Joy, maybe? Anticipation? Isak’s surprised she hasn’t reached over to hit the play button for him.

“Uh, no,” Isak deadpans. “How did you even know about this?”

Sana rolls her eyes. “Elias is my brother.” When Isak doesn’t say anything, just looks at her in stunned amazement, she repeats herself. “Elias,” she points to the screen, echoing the name slowly like Isak’s an idiot.

So many walls are closing in on Isak now, and he’s doubting whether he should have been able to put the pieces together sooner. The blank stare he’s still giving Sana must come off as stupidity rather than curiosity, because she’s swiping Isak’s phone from his hand, pressing play on the video, and shoving the screen back beneath his fingers—turning the volume up.

The video opens up to the Hei Briskeby boys sitting on a large couch with a grand bookcase behind them, everyone laughing and touching and facing the camera—Elias in the middle. Even’s arm is draped around Mikael, who’s holding hands with Adam behind Yousef’s shoulders. Mutta is on his right.

Elias claps his hands excitedly, quieting the boys as they introduce themselves, which seems to be how they start every video. Then, Elias starts to explain the premise—prank engagements on unassuming strangers a la Impractical Jokers style. He turns to pull Yousef’s snapback off his head, flips it upside down, and scatters scraps of paper into it. He explains that each one contains their names, and whoever gets drawn will have to be the pranker.

Elias holds the hat over to Even, and it becomes obvious after his grimace and the howl from Mutta on his right that he’s picked his own name.

Elias leans forward into the camera and says, “this should be fun.” He winks, and it cuts to black.

The shot reopens in a public park—a different one than where they met Isak. Whoever is holding the camera has a shaky hand, but Isak sees Even a few meters away, pulling the same stunt he did on Isak. He drops to one knee in front of a girl, pulling out the small velvet box. She slaps him in the face, and the camera jiggles violently as the boys erupt into laughter. Cut to black again.

This happens about five more times in separate sequences, with three other girls and two boys—each response varied.

Until they get to Isak. He sees himself sitting on the bench, phone pressed to his ear and Even’s back slowly approaching him. 

Isak rolls his eyes at his phone—god his hair looks horrible. And what the fuck is he wearing.

He sees himself drop the phone to his lap—and he laughs at himself for looking thoroughly unimpressed throughout the whole thing, although he can only hear the Hei Briskeby boys snickering.

He’s glad he can’t hear his own voice, which would probably make him cringe.

At the end, when Isak makes a big show of saying yes, Even scoops him up from the bench into a kiss. It lasts six slow seconds. Was that longer or shorter than what Isak remembered? He can’t wrack his brain for the memory—he can only feel it. That flash of white.

The video ends. Isak is the last prankee. The only one Even kisses.

Sana’s wide-eyed and batting her eyelashes over to Isak. “That’s very unlike him,” she announces, snapping her laptop shut and standing up. “I’m going to the bathroom before class starts.”

Isak watches the end of the video again. And again. Okay—three times.

 

———

 

They’ve made the plans that Even strangely remembers—he’s good with details like that. While Isak was busy getting lost in Even’s blue eyes during dinner over the weekend, Even was actually paying attention to Lea—her plans and her dress and her new husband. 

So really, Even is the organizer here. 

Her reception is on Saturday, and like last time, Even will be there to pick Isak up.

Only to help Isak, of course. His mom is going to take some serious convincing, and Isak just can’t break her heart during Lea’s big day. And Even’s agreed (willingly—enthusiastically) to help him, so.

So that’s it. That’s all this is.

> **ISAK:**  
>  Warning: mom, mom’s new boyfriend, dad, and half-sister (the bride) will all be in the same location this is not a drill
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Uh oh. I sense some family drama?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I guess you could say that mom and dad are no longer on the best of terms. And mom’s new boyfriend will be there, who DOES NOT like my dad. And mom told me Lea is just bridezilla on steroids so. Yeah.
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  What happened?  
>  Sorry  
>  That was probably too personal  
>  You don’t have to tell me that if you don’t want
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Well  
>  Either the joke gets personal  
>  Or…
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Or?

Isak hesitates, because this “or” would be the end of it. Either Even is going to fully commit to Isak’s family drama—just for the sake of their fake relationship (Isak tries to put the emphasis on fake)—or Even can back out. Leaving Isak in the black. 

He doesn’t want to give Even the chance to pick the “or.”

> **ISAK:**  
>  It’s really not a big deal. I mean, it is a big deal. But it’s not a big deal that you know about it. Mom has some mental health issues that caused my dad to leave her. She’s totally fine now for the most part. Besides some relapses every now and again. She just refused help in the past. But now it’s better. Her and dad are on rocky terms, though. I’m not even sure how much they really talk. And it really was a dick move on my dad’s part. I’m still trying to forgive him. And, of course, mom’s new boyfriend hates him for what he did to her.
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  What kind of mental illness?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  What?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  What kind of mental illness does your mom have?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  She has schizoaffective disorder  
>  It’s like mild schizophrenia with depression
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  She seemed totally normal when I met her
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  She is totally normal
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Do you really think that?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I do now

———

 

Isak wouldn’t be wearing a tux if his mom didn’t make him rent one. But here he is—solid black everything, bowtie included, like a reminder.

He prepares himself to slip into the white, knowing that no matter how hard he tries to find the grey line, there isn’t one. There’s no blur between anything he has with Even; It’s on, then it’s off. There is what is real, and what is fake. And, unfortunately, Isak’s had the taste—is craving another kiss (another _real_ kiss filled with promises of tomorrows) from someone he doesn’t want to admit has a hold on him.

It’s not just the way Even looks (although he’s not complaining). It’s the way he makes Isak feel; Important and worthy and valued and precious. And is that part not real? Is Isak not those things? It’s hard to think so when his body feels used up physically—no love to heal him back into something special. He’s an object. A punching bag. A doormat. And the worst part of it is, Isak let’s it happen. He _makes_ it happen—the ecstasy of the moment between all his Grindr hookups like a drug in passing, letting him wither away when it’s over. He can’t stop, because in those moments it’s the closest he can get to slipping into the white.

And then there is Even. And the white is blinding.

So he gets ready to shift over into it, fast and abrupt and all consuming like an avalanche—a cold, blinding white avalanche that might just kill him. There will be this Isak: pacing in the room of his apartment with eyes glued to his phone waiting for Even to announce his arrival, and then there will be that Isak: pecking Even on the lips and holding his hand and stealing sweet nothings. Sweet everythings. And it will all happen in the blink of an eye. 

Isak will be black. And then he will be white.

And then he will be black again.

And he doesn’t want to think about that right now.

> **EVEN:**  
>  Here

Isak locks his phone and makes his way to the front door, being stopped by Eskild on the couch watching a movie with Linn.

He lets out a low whistle. “Damn, pretty boy. You clean up nice. Tell Lea I said congratulations.”

Isak gives him a small salute, pulling the door closed behind him and jogging down the stairs—his nice shoes clicking with echoes as he descends.

Even gives him a quick up-down when he slides in the passenger seat of the car, pocketing his phone with a smile and resuming his signature driving position—one arm around the passenger seat headrest and the other on the wheel. He looks good—not as fancy as Isak, but he’s blaming that on his mom.

Even doesn’t say anything, just gives him another lingering once-over before using the hand behind Isak’s head to ruffle his hair before he pulls off the curb and into the road. He leaves his hand there, playing with a curl for a moment before he needs both hands on the wheel to make a turn.

Isak feels the flash, like a cold ice bath, and it dawns on him that no amount of preparation will ready him for the feeling. He can tell himself it’s all consuming. He can tell himself it’s intense and burning and maybe a little painful, now that he knows he wants it to be real. Maybe he’s not prepared to feel it; to slip into it for a whole night.

But it’s too late now.

When something particularly upbeat and bouncy hums its way through the stereo, Even bobs his head, bites his bottom lip, and turns the volume up.

Its terrible and trashy and Isak hates it, but his teeth poke out from under his lips in a grin at the sight of Even dancing.

“What!” Even gawks when he sees Isak’s judgmental stare. “It’s tradition now! You’re always so tense—” he lightly shoves Isak’s shoulder. “You need to loosen up—move a little! I don’t bite,” he reassures, but snaps his teeth playfully—raising an eyebrow and continuing to groove. Not at all graceful or even attractive, mind you. He looks like a complete and utter dork.

Isak slouches down in his seat, elbow on the ledge of the window with his hand covering his face. He’s looking over at Even between parted fingers, trying to be judgmental but failing at keeping his grin at bay through a bitten lip.

“Oh?” Even asks, patting Isak’s thigh. It jolts throughout his whole body—another flash of white. “Am I embarrassing you now?”

“I can’t be seen with you,” Isak laughs, his attempt at seriousness paling under sparkling eyes that give away all his sarcasm.

“I can turn around,” Even warns, one finger in the air. But Isak knows that Even knows that’s not happening. They can tease each other and pretend they don’t want to do this all they want—the night has a lot more coming.

Isak knows this. He tells himself he’s not excited for it.

He wonders if Even knows this, too.

They’re fashionably late, as per Isak’s doing. He hates arriving early—would rather insert himself in the middle of almost finished conversations than start new ones. And this seems to be how the night will go, seeing as when they step into the reception hall of the Radisson Blu Plaza Hotel downtown, everyone is already there.

Lea is dancing with her husband on the dance floor, his nieces and nephews and small cousins out there as well with other assorted friends and family members. The music isn’t loud but it’s inviting, and an open bar sits in the corner with kegs and bottles of wine. Isak glances around for his mother—she’s over by a table lined with finger foods talking to her boyfriend and her sister—a direct opposite from Terje, Isak’s father, on the other side of the room double-fisting two beers and talking to a woman who really can’t be that much older than Isak. Isak’s never seen her before. He wonders if it’s his date.

 _Ugh. That’s gross,_ he thinks.

He glances up at Even by his side, nudging his shoulder with his own and bobbing his head in the direction of Terje.

“That’s my dad,” Isak whispers, not taking his eyes off his father. “I kind of want to just get it out of the way, if you don’t mind.” He tugs Even in that direction, his feet heavier and heavier with every step. 

The stress of the whole situation must be bleeding out of Isak in emotional gashes, because Even notices; slides his hand down Isak’s arm, gripping his fingers to stop him and loop back around. Isak glances down at the contact before Even tips his chin up to look at him.

“We don’t have to,” Even smiles. “Let people approach us, right? We’re bound to attract almost as many questions as Lea—seeing as how we’re ‘next in line.’” Even takes his grasp off Isak’s chin to use on one-handed air quotes around the last part of his sentence. “I don’t know about you,” he leans in, squeezing Isak’s hand, “but I’m here to have a good time.” He looks over Isak’s shoulder, like maybe he’s spotted Terje, like maybe they’re in some sort of turf war over Isak. Like maybe he hates him already, simply from what he’s done to Isak.

His eyes flicker down again, boring into Isak’s pupils and then to his lips. He frees his hand from Isak’s only to bring them both back up to his face, fingers curling in the baby hair’s down Isak’s neck. 

Who knows who leans in first—who cares—because their eyes are closed and their lips are together now in a kiss far too short for Isak’s liking.

Isak’s fully in the white. Back to wondering if this is what love feels like and where it might fit into his life. Fuck, he’d make it fit. Shove other things out of the way to find a place for it.

He wants to lean in for another one, wondering if that’s giving too much away since this isn’t really for anyone right now. Maybe for Terje, who Isak thinks Even is locked into eye contact with again—suddenly defensive and protective and maybe a little possessive.

Fuck it. Isak grabs Even with one hand on the back of his neck and the other on his waist to draw him in again. Even doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t hitch his breath. He smiles into it and obliges with enthusiasm when Isak tilts his head to deepen the sensation.

Good god he doesn’t want Even to pull away, but he can’t find the willpower to, either—the kiss so long it’s dangerous. It’s not sexual, at least as far as kisses go. Their mouths remain shut for the most part—it’s all smiles and hands and lips—full of everything Isak’s never had in any kiss from anyone else. Full of vows.

At least, that’s what it feels like.

Isak’s made aware of the fact it’s simply an act when he hears his mother’s voice, Even breaking away and turning to greet her like he’s known her his whole life.

“There you two lovebirds are,” she announces with a small clearing of the throat—making her presence known.

Isak doesn’t know whether to curse her or to thank her for bringing him back to reality.

“Are you two going to come dance?” She adds, looking mainly towards Even like she already knows Isak’s answer—because she does.

Even’s hand finds it’s way to Isak’s, and the kiss he plants on his temple leaves Isak’s skin hot for the rest of the night. “I don’t know,” Even starts to ask, smiling fondly down at him. But he does know, if Isak’s refusal to dance in the car is any indication. Although that’s not the only thing he knows—he knows Isak will give in. “Are we?”

Isak thinks, a frustrated smile with matching, hooded eyes bouncing between his mom and Even. In the end, he doesn’t really have a choice—the only thing he can do is try to get wasted first. “Fine,” he agrees, eyes smashing shut with a sigh and one warning finger in the air to indicate he is going to be picky and demanding. “But I need a drink first. Or two. Maybe three.”

Even plants another peck on his cheek, this time closer to his neck, giving Marianne a toothy grin when he pops off. “Fair enough.”

They walk up to the bar, and Isak orders two beers—when Even tries to take one, Isak squints his eyes, ducks the beers out of his grasp, and tilts his head up to ask for a kiss. “There’s a password,” he whispers, eyes hooded and drunk on something other than the drinks in his hand. “And they’re also not for you, I thought you didn’t drink,” he mumbles over Even’s lips when he obliges to Isak’s demand, distracting him enough to pull one of the cups from his grip.

“I said I don’t drink _that often,”_ Even corrects, winking at Isak over his first sip. “It’s a wedding reception. This is a special occasion.”

Isak rolls his eyes and orders two more beers—the bartender giving him the side eye while he pulls them from the tap. Even gives him the same look, although more amused and less condescending.

“I’m serious,” Isak deadpans, chugging. “If you want to dance, I need to be drunk.”

“Wow,” Even smiles, placing his free hand over his heart and bobbing his knees with a thrown back head—endeared beyond belief. (At least Isak thinks so.) “Tonight I not only get to see Isak Valtersen dance, I get to see him drunk.”

“Savor it, buddy,” Isak winks, “I don’t do this often.”

Isak takes off the jacket to his tux after three beers and one dance because everything is sticky and sweaty and hot on the dance floor. Lea doesn’t care—she’s swinging her arms, neon lights flashing with her husband’s niece in her arms—bare foot and hair pulled up in a ponytail.

Everyone’s like that, for the most part. High-heels abandoned. Coats and jackets lining chairs. Foreheads slick with sweat from the movement and the body heat.

When Isak finds Even again, he’s dancing next to Lea and Isak’s mom—her new niece hand in hand with Even who’s crouched down to twirl her. When he spots Isak, he scoops her up to hand back to Isak’s mom, head bobbing and one finger roping him in with that classic “come here” motion.

Isak finishes his fourth beer, rolls his eyes, and shimmies his way over to Even, Lea and his mother pressing their shoulders up against him and laugh-singing along to the song; maybe Isak’s not the only one who’s been drinking. Even holds a hand out when Isak is close enough, grabbing him by the elbow into a twirl and stopping Isak with his back to Even’s front. Their arms stay twisted into and around each other over Isak’s waist—swaying to the beat.

He’s in the white. He is deep, deep under the snow of the avalanche with Even pressed up against him like this, singing Gabrielle in his ear and not caring how ridiculous they look. 

Isak turns his head, tipping his chin up to look at Even and brushing his nose against his jaw to ask for a kiss. He teases Isak for a little bit—lips on the side of Isak’s mouth, on his forehead, on his cheek—dodging Isak’s attempt to plant one on his mouth. 

Even gives in though; Even gives in with a smile. A smile that soon disappears when Isak takes one of his arms up over his head to pull Even down by the back of his neck and deepen the kiss into something full of passion. Full of little bites and lots of tongue and clashing of teeth. It’s different, that’s for sure. More like the kisses he’s used to with strangers back in his high-school hookups. But it’s different in a way Isak can only explain as good.

 _Love_ sounds like the right word. This is the kind of kiss people exchange with they’re deep in love—their only outlet of expression left beyond words to get physical.

It’s only when the song changes from something electronic and bassy to something slow and soothing that Even pops off, spinning Isak around to face his front and scooping his hand in his—another on his waist while Isak grabs Even’s shoulder and they calm down into a slow dance.

Even presses his forehead to Isak’s and smiles, glancing over and grinning at Marianne who is grinning right back. “You’re a…” Even starts, laughing and turning back.

“You don’t have to compliment me on my dancing skills,” Isak warns, pulling his forehead away to narrow his eyes and lips at Even in a threatening smile. “I tried, and therefore, no one should criticize me.”

“Maybe I was going to compliment you on your kissing skills.” Even closes the gap—this time soft and tender the way Isak likes. The kind of kiss he melts into in a way that is increasingly dangerous. The kind of kiss that flings him into this white space he almost wishes he was never exposed to.

Because it makes his heart drop. Stop. Ache. For something real.

When Even breaks away, he rests his forehead back against Isak’s. “We should probably take the tram back to my place so we can both sober up,” Even admits. “I think I’ve had one too many to drive us back.”

 

———

 

There is no subtlety between this black and white. No line to cross. No grey area to ease Isak back into it. No gradient where things could get fuzzy. It’s sudden, and he knows this, but it shocks him every time.

And he’s back into it now, the black. As soon as they step out of the reception hall in the hotel—black like a curtain on a stage. The show over. Isak reminds himself of this—outside. On the tram. Walking up the steps to Even’s apartment. His brain still dizzy and his feet still fumbly and his words still slurry from the alcohol. Even’s too.

Although that isn’t to say they don’t have a good time. Don’t laugh and joke and tease and talk on the walk. On the tram. Up the stairs. If Isak’s not careful, just this alone might send him back into the white. 

The kissing, though. That’s stopped for now—no audience to witness it. No one they need to fool.

“Do you mind if I go change?” Even asks after he turns the key and they walk through his door.

Isak just shakes his head and absorbs his surroundings—Even disappearing down the hall and into a room. The apartment is large—probably three bedrooms. Artwork void of frames hangs with no real composition around the entryway and living room. Plants that look like they might need watering soon drip from the windowsill. Large, pillowy beige couches forming an “L” in front of a TV mounted to the wall look nice and worn-in. The kitchen is attached through the wall to the left by an open set of french doors, and Isak can see a small, white and grey checked tile pattern to the floor with yellow walls interrupted halfway up by white subway tile. There’s a balcony leading outside.

When Even returns, he’s got on black sweatpants that fit snug around the ankles and a loose, white t-shirt. Isak’s drunk, so he can’t help but think it’s the perfect outfit to cuddle him in.

He mentally slaps himself. _Get it together._

Even starts for the kitchen, stumbling a bit and laughing as he waves a hand for Isak to to follow.

“It’s nice,” Isak mentions as he trails Even, “the apartment.”

Even grabs two coffee cups from the cupboard, turning to look over his shoulder with a smile at Isak. “Thanks,” he offers. “I live here with the boys. Elias and Mutta and Yousef,” he clarifies.

“Adam and Mikael?” Isak prods.

“They live together down the hall,” Even smiles. “Coffee?” 

When Isak nods, Even pats the counter beside him with his free hand, packing coffee grounds into a filter with his other.

Isak hops up on it—still a little unbalanced from his tipsiness—and Even reaches up to get another glass and fill it with water from the sink, handing it to him with a smile.

“Thanks,” Isak whispers, trying his best to not swallow every last drop in two seconds. In a moment, his cup is being taken from his hands and being replaced with another one—full of coffee. “For, you know, everything,” he continues, finger tracing the lip of his mug while he waits for it to cool down. “Like, doing this for me so my mom wouldn’t freak out before Lea’s reception. She’s so high-strung sometimes, I didn’t want to stress her out and—”

“Isak,” Even interrupts, tipping his head with a smirk and positioning himself in front of Isak with his back leaning against the side of the fridge. One step closer and he’d be between Isak’s thighs.

 _Ugh._ He tries not to think about that, but the beer still swimming in his brain makes it hard to concentrate on anything else. He could hop down in one swift movement. Pin Even against the fridge. Kiss him until he gets light-headed and—

 _Stop._ Isak tries to focus.

“It’s no problem,” Even finishes. “Really. I like your family—they’re fun. But, um,” he trails, pausing his sentence to take a sip of coffee. “When do you think you’ll tell her? Your mom? About…”

“About how fucked I am in this lie?” Isak laughs to himself, head bobbing down and then coming back up with closed eyes—one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose between them. “I don’t even fucking know,” he admits.

At this point, if he’s being honest, he doesn’t want to. He’d rather take his phone out and text his mom to ask when her next get together is so he has an excuse to drag Even to it. To kiss him again.

Which is another reason he doesn’t even fucking know. He can hardly concentrate on anything other than hopping off the counter, one arm braced against the side of the fridge so his free hand can find its way to Even’s cheek. So his lips can find their way to Even’s. And Isak would start off slow, in that way that brings the white back in all the flashes, but that can never last for long if the kiss itself lasts more than a few seconds. Because Even is dangerous for Isak. Even smiles into his kisses. Puts his hands on Isak’s face—not on his ass or down his pants. Even treats Isak like a human being. Like their kisses themselves are something to be savored rather than just a buildup to sex.

God he’s drunk. Getting turned on by fantasizing about being treated decently.

Which is also something he’s never experienced before. He’s rarely ever in the mood until he actually gets there. Until his clothes are off and someone’s hands are on him. He’s never just been in the presence of someone he’s wanted—the tension of actually wanting them itself enough to make him think these things.

To think about Even against him. Under him. All over him. When in reality, he’s standing right in front of Isak.

Because usually Isak just… gets it. That instant gratification. If he wants to hook up, he’s only a few swipes away from doing so. Only a short walk or a tram ride away from skin on skin. So this buildup—this unattainable wanting—is something Isak’s never experienced before.

“It’ll come up,” Isak promises, clearing his throat, setting his half-drank mug on the counter, and looking up at Even. “She’ll get it eventually. It’s not like this can go on forever.”

Whether to his horror or relief, Isak doesn’t know, Even takes a step closer. “Right,” he repeats. “It’s not like this can go on forever.”

If Isak thought he wanted to press Even against the fridge and kiss him until he was dizzy from lack of blood flow to his brain then, well. Then that was nothing. Because the urge to pull him closer now—to grab his loose t-shirt by the sides and press Even into Isak’s open legs is almost unbearable. The white is starting to flash again when Even takes another step closer. But it’s everywhere now—not just tingling his lips and eyelids and cheeks, but making it’s way down his torso. His hips his thighs his ankles. Isak almost scoots his legs forward on the counter, begging for Even to place his hands on them.

Two fingers from Even dance on his knee—Even licking his bottom lip and trailing his eyes from Isak’s legs slowly up his body to his face. Time is moving at half-speed, and yet Isak’s brain still can’t keep up. Everything _means_ something in this moment. Every glance. Every shift. Every word unspoken. It’s torture. Isak has never experienced desire quite like this. The kind that, yes, makes him want to tangle up naked and dizzy with Even in bed, but also the kind that makes him want to linger afterwards. To maybe light a joint and talk about the universe half under the sheets, only to realize they’re both still naked and do it all over again.

Fuck. He is drunk. Drunk enough to make a move.

So he reaches for Even—the front of his shirt. He tilts his head like he’s asking—and again, to his horror or relief, Isak doesn’t know, Even is answering.

Or, starting to.

But the door clicks with the lock, the sound startling them and giving Isak and Even just enough time to shove forcefully off each other back onto opposite sides of the kitchen—Isak still on the counter and Even pacing away to the fridge.

The key turns and the door opens to reveal Elias.

Anyone with half a brain might realize what had been going on in the kitchen. Isak’s face is either beet red or sickly pale, he has no idea, but his breathing is heavy from not breathing _at all_ for the last few minutes, and he’s sitting on their counter hiding half a boner.

And then there’s Even, opening the fridge like he’s looking for a goddamn snack when really he was _this close_ to eating Isak’s face.

But Elias doesn’t realize what’s going on, because his eyes are swollen shut. Red. Wet. Sniffling nose to match, and Isak would feel terrible if he didn’t feel relief. 

He’s got a few choice words for Eskild when he gets home, that’s for sure.

Elias blinks frantically a few times when he’s met with the boys in the kitchen, like he’s half expecting no one to be home. 

When they meet eyes, Isak’s not sure if Elias remembers him or if he is just starting to—the pieces still in disarray but slowly revealing the whole picture. 

That Isak knows—knows Elias beyond Hei Briskeby. Beyond the park, the prank, and the video. Because _fuck, Isak is that kid who lives with my boyfriend._

Isak can see these thoughts clicking together through Elias’s expression, his face growing more alarmed by the second—like a connection has been made to reveal him and this secret he thought no one besides Eskild knew about.

“Oh,” Elias stammers out, putting on that fake grin Isak knows too well before wiping his face with his sleeve. “Hi, Even. Hi... Isak? It’s Isak, right?”

“Yeah,” Isak squeaks, lips pursed and eyes flickering to everything all at once to assess the situation. Elias is trying to hide the fact he was very obviously crying moments ago. Even’s eyes are locked on him, and he looks pained—or maybe like he’s trying not to vomit. Isak’s eyes settle to the floor, the air thickening with awkwardness.

“But Isak was just leaving,” Even starts, breaking his gaze from Elias—the pained, maybe about to vomit expression holding true as he tries desperately to get Isak to meet his eyes. Like he’s trying to communicate something through a glance alone.

It sits like a rock in Isak’s stomach: the fact that Even is kicking him out and the guilt for wishing an obviously heartbroken, crying Elias would have just waited five more minutes. 

“Right, Isak?” Even prods.

He might as well be in one of his hookup’s apartments—his presence no longer wanted—and Even is subtly (or, not so subtly) reminding him of that. Used up and shoved out, all from his own doing. This feeling isn’t foreign, though. Isak is used to feeling unwanted—at least, he was. Before he got a taste of slow kisses and slow dancing. Nose brushes and forehead kisses and hands everywhere they’re suppose to be: intertwined with another’s. On the hot skin where his cheek meets his jaw. Cradling his face in a kiss.

So, yeah. This feeling isn’t foreign. But it’s a hell of a lot harder than Isak ever remembers it being.

Isak just nods, biting the inside of his cheek and hopping off the counter in one swift motion—not a glance towards anyone on his way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk with me on [tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/) Comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> Also, you should go read [this cute little fluffy fall fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12196359) by [Mackenzie](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12196359) because it's cute as fuck.


	3. Chapter 3

> **EVEN:**  
>  Hey  
>  I’m sorry about Elias  
>  He’s just…  
>  He’s complicated  
>  And I’m like the only person he can talk to  
>  Isak?

> **JONAS:**  
>  I haven’t seen you in a few days  
>  Everything alright?

> **SANA:**  
>  Midterm is next week, Isabell  
>  Have you started studying?  
>  Do you want to come over on Wednesday?  
>  I don’t understand anything about the chapter on bovine ophthalmology

> **MAMMA:**  
>  What are you doing for fall break?  
>  I reserved a day up at the cabin if you and Even want to join us  
>  This Saturday!

> **ESKILD:**  
>  Come out of your room for once  
>  I made tea

Oh—Isak’s reading all of his messages, that’s for sure. He just isn’t responding to any of them. Would rather shut himself in his room for forty-eight hours instead, debating on whether or not he should try to beat some sense into his mom—to reinforce that his engagement is fake. Or, you know, ask her to schedule every weekend from now until forever with family events Isak will just have to drag Even to—and at that point they might as well _actually_ get married.

It’s not fun, this back-and-forth. This black and white.

At least Even reached out. That’s something Isak knew better than to hope for, so at least he gets to be pleasantly surprised. (Whether or not he’ll answer the asshole is left to be determined.)

But now he also has to deal with Eskild, who he can only avoid for so long.

And Jonas and Sana and his mom—

Why does he have to talk to people, again? Is it against the law to go MIA for a few hours (okay, days), because honestly, sometimes life is too loud for Isak. He can handle one thing at a time, tops.

So this, right now, can be dealt with another time. He’ll talk to his mom soon. Explain everything. He’ll eventually get around to making plans with Sana to study, and really, if he doesn’t answer Jonas before long, he’s bound to come knocking on Isak’s door in another day or two.

Eskild’s another story, and Isak’s avoiding him like the black plague.

And Even—well. He’ll figure that out later.

He reads through his messages one more time, making sure his read receipts are fucking _on,_ damn it. And instead of replying to his friends and family, because they can just sit there on read for a few more hours _at least,_ Isak is replying to a stranger.

On Grindr.

It’s been two days without any white. He needs to feel something, okay? It’s not going to be the same—he knows that, but at least it’s something. And while he doesn’t want to admit a large part of him pictures Even every time he closes his eyes, Isak’s vouching for the most amount of feeling with the least amount of pain. And that scale happens to tip in the direction of a meaningless hookup.

Isak hears the front door open and then close—his cue to get up now that the apartment is empty.

Only it fucking isn’t—Eskild, that asshole.

“Hah!” Eskild cheers, crossing his arms successfully in the living room when Isak walks in. “Got you! Sit,” he motions to the couch. “And spill.”

Isak obeys, though irritably—sinking into the couch and resting his chin in his hand propped up by his knee. His eyes are tired and lidded, looking Eskild dead on—void of emotions. If there’s one person he is not scared of, it’s Eskild. (Although he still would rather not talk to him right now.)

There are a few reasons Isak’s avoiding this conversation: Number one, he actually can’t tell Eskild off (the way he wants to) without opening the floodgates. Although Isak’s curious about what happened between him and Elias, his desire to not explain how (and the events leading up to this “how”) he ended up in Elias’s apartment outweigh his genuine interest. Which, number two, paves the conversation in the direction of Even, this disaster they’ve created between themselves, and _no, Eskild, they’re really not together._ As you can see, it’s a slippery slope.

“How have you been, pretty boy?” Eskild feigns curiosity. He might actually care, but Isak thinks he’s trying to stir up drama or a distraction. Which usually means bad news, because Eskild will deny to the hilt if something (or, someone) is bothering him—especially when it relates to his personal life.

Isak deadpans at him, face still smushed in his hand, his expression nothing less than utterly, passively unamused. “I’ll tell you,” he chirps with a head bob, steering this conversation back to shore and away from him. “But you go first.” When Eskild looks confused, Isak clarifies. “Tell me how _you’ve_ been.”

“I’m fine,” Eskild defends, almost a little too quickly. “I’m always fine, you know this. _You’re_ the baby gay in constant need of advice and reassurance and—”

“Eskild.” Isak smashes his eyes shut. “Shut up.”

Eskild narrows his eyes, offended.

Isak takes a large breath in, exhaling slowly as he turns his gaze back up. “I’m fine,” Isak defends, doing his best to make this not about him and covering his tracks on the way there. “I’m just... hungover,” he kind of lies, “from Lea’s reception. And tired.” His voice gets a little higher and a little more animated, the frustrations seeping out. “Am I not allowed to rest all Sunday and skip class today? Also—you shove me into my room every fucking time I get home, so. I don’t understand what the big deal is now, or why you’re trying to lure me out.”

Eskild brings a hand up to his face, resting his chin in it like Isak. “You’re right,” he sighs slowly. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Isak does a curt nod. “So I’m just trying to be nice for once,” he continues. “Since your boyfriend is always here and I’m not allowed to even look at him.” He raises his eyebrows at Eskild, poking his tongue out and thinking his next line over. It has to be careful. Plotted. “I haven’t… I haven’t seen him around these past few days,” Isak pokes, purposefully avoiding the name and wondering if he’s actually waking a sleeping beast.

Eskild doesn’t say anything, just looks down and plays with the hem of his sweater.

“So,” Isak continues, “What’s going on—”

Eskild interrupts him with a dramatic sigh, halfway annoyed with a blunt eyeroll. “It’s fine, Isak,” he assures. If his body language is any indication, though, Eskild is not fine. He pushes himself off the couch with a huff, making way for the kitchen and slamming cabinets and crashing dishes when he gets there.

Isak’s phone buzzes.

> **Kosegutt69:**  
>  I’ll be home at 23:00

Still sitting on the couch, he responds to his Grindr hookup with a thumbs up emoji. He can’t remember (god, that sounds terrible), but Isak thinks he’s actually hooked up with this guy before. Honestly, everyone’s half-naked torsos and blurry, pixel-wide faces start to look the same after awhile. If he remembers correctly, it was decent. A little rough, but good, which is exactly what he needs right now to take his mind off of things. Someone to fuck (or, fuck him—he’s in that kind of mood right now) until he can’t remember his own name.

Isak wants to go take nap, but Eskild’s passive aggressively putting the dishes away (loudly) in the kitchen, and Isak knows more loud, passive aggressive cleaning is coming after it. So escaping the apartment right now is imperative. He pulls up all of the messages he hasn’t responded to yet, deciding Jonas is probably the safest bet.

> **ISAK:**  
>  Sorry man. Just been busy is all  
>  What are you doing now?
> 
> **JONAS:**  
>  I’m with Mags  
>  Come over?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  On my way

———

 

“Yoooo,” Magnus booms deeply, opening the door to let Isak in. “Sup, man?”

Isak gives him a small salute, slipping his shoes off before following Magnus into the basement, passing Jonas in the kitchen who trails down after them with a few beers.

“Magnus is addicted to his phone, so,” Jonas starts, throwing a beer and a controller over at Isak. “He’s not allowed to play anymore.”

“What!” Magnus gapes, poking a finger into his own chest and sitting on the floor crossed-legged, while Jonas takes a seat in the bean bag chair and Isak flops into the recliner beside him. “I’m texting Julian. It’s distracting.”

 _Um. Excuse me?_ Isak whips his head over to Magnus, trying hard to not be an absolute caricature of himself—wide eyes, lifted eyebrows, and cupid’s bow in one of those smile-frowns that might as well be painted on his face.

“Texting?” Isak prods.

“We’ve been on four dates in the past three weeks,” Magnus waggles his eyebrows at Isak. “But you’ve been MIA, so,” he pouts, turning back to his phone. “No deets for you.”

There is just one line of thought running through Isak’s head like a marquee: _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck._

“Let me see him,” Isak demands, reaching for Magnus’s phone. Magnus holds it up out of his grasp, a smile and a hyena laugh right into Isak’s ear that makes him recoil. “I just want to see if he’s hot,” Isak adds as an afterthought—definitely not because he needs to know if this Julian is the same Julian he slept with.

Magnus does a few swipes, Isak’s heart threateningly loud in his ears, and then hands over his phone. 

“He’s pretty hot,” Magnus nods, raising his eyebrows and swiping his tongue across his canine—obviously unafraid to contain how smitten he is already. “I think tonight might be the night we finally hook up,” he adds.

Isak’s stomach drops when he sees the selfie of Julian staring at him on Magnus’s screen, because yep, it’s the same Julian.

“Are you guys, like, official?” Isak presses, handing the phone back with sweaty palms.

Magnus furrows his eyebrows, like he hasn’t thought about it before. “Hmm,” he thinks, turning his phone over in his hands and unfolding his legs—leaning in the space next to Isak’s chair and letting his head flop back against the armrest. “I don’t know, I guess. But I feel like if he just wanted to hook up, we’d just hook up, you know? No need for dinner and movies and shit.”

Isak nods just once, praying for Jonas to say something or for Magnus to change topics—the words he knows he should say harboring in his throat, every gulp to push them back down resurging them until they’re at the tip of his tongue.

He should tell Magnus. He should. But how the fuck do you tell one of your best friends that you slept with his maybe-almost-boyfriend last week? Especially when he won’t admit he’s still reeling from Vilde, who dumped him and got together with Eva. Which, understandably, has put a rift in their friend group.

All Isak can do is pray this Julian guy is a rebound, wait it out, and maybe never mention it?

Unless it’s not a rebound, because then Isak has to mention it. He _has_ to, right? That’s what normal, decent, caring friends do. They tell their buddy he’s about to hook up with a fuckboy. Who he also fucked. Shit, this all sounds so terrible. 

“Did you bring down snacks?” Magnus asks, thankfully breaking the silence and looking from Isak to Jonas.

“No,” Jonas frowns, scratching the top of his head and making his curls grow wilder. “But there’s some chips upstairs, I think. Or we can order a pizza.”

“On it,” Magnus nods, pulling his phone out to call and heading up the stairs.

When he’s out of earshot, Isak can’t hold it in any longer. “I slept with him,” he blurts in a whisper, whipping his head around to Jonas.

Who furrows his eyebrows so close together they look like one. “You slept with Magnus?” He reels, horrified.

“Noooo. No no no no no,” Isak backpedals, waving his hands and still whispering. The thought alone makes him want to throw up. “With Julian,” he corrects.

Jonas darts his eyes back in forth at nothing in particular, trying to gather his thoughts. “Like,” he starts. “Like, recently?”

“Last week,” Isak nods, lips pursed and eyes squeezing shut at the memory.

“Dude,” Jonas half laughs, “you have to tell him.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Isak defends. “I’m just going to… going to see if maybe it’s just a fling, first. Maybe.”

Before Jonas can talk him out of that bad idea, Magnus is bouncing back down the stairs, phone in one hand and chips in the other—laughing animatedly at his screen with a mouth full of them.

“Have you guys heard of Hei Briskeby?” He asks, tapping his phone to pause the video and plop back down next to Isak.

As if Isak’s organs can’t fall any further—heart and lungs sinking into his stomach which drop to his intestines—everything sitting uncomfortably low and painful.

“Hei Briskeby?” Jonas asks, one hand in the air.

Magnus shoves another fistful of chips into his mouth. “They’re a YouTube channel,” he says. “Here,” he scoots closer to Jonas, motioning for Isak to follow as he holds his phone out a comfortable distance for everyone to see. “They’re fucking hilarious. Oh, shit, they posted a new video.”

Before Isak has any sort of excuse to back up his actions, he swipes Magnus’s phone from his fingers, closes the app, and holds it to his chest. Which, understandably, warrants him judgemental, puzzled looks from both Magnus and Jonas.

“Uh,” Isak starts, stupidly. Fuck. He really has no out. “Just,” he sighs, painfully unfurling his fingers from Magnus’s phone and slowly handing it back. “Just watch,” he finishes with a grimace.

Jonas and Magnus exchange a wide-eyed glance, cautious now to start.

“Just watch it,” Isak repeats, scooting away with a forced laugh and trying to lighten the mood. “It’s… it’s not a big deal.”

Magnus presses play, Jonas leaning in close and pausing every few seconds to glance back up at Isak. He looks confused throughout the beginning, but laughs along with Magnus when the first girl slaps Even across the face. It becomes apparent when Isak’s onscreen, because Jonas curls his knuckles into a fist and brings it to his mouth, eyes wide at Isak, who, can’t help but smile along.

“This Even guy is hot,” Magnus notes.

“Shit, Is, what did you say to him?” Jonas asks, unable to hear the conversation between the two over the Hei Briskeby boys laughing.

“I asked him if he would leave me alone if I said yes,” Isak snorts, blush creeping to his cheeks as he realizes the kiss is coming up.

“Shit, Isak!” Magnus howls, jerking back with his phone, Jonas having to steady his arm to continue watching. “He fucking kissed you. Like _kissed_ you.”

Jonas wrinkles his forehead, confused smile still in place as the video ends.

“That was pretty hot,” Magnus blurts, locking his phone and clasping his hands behind his head. “Oh!” He adds. “And you’re like, famous now probably. The video already has like 10,000 views.” Before anyone has time to comment, though, the doorbell rings upstairs. “Pizzaaa,” Magnus sings, hoisting himself up and jogging up the stairs.

“That was funny, man,” Jonas smirks, his eyes carrying a question he doesn’t ask.

Isak appreciates that about Jonas, though. The fact that he purposefully didn’t tell the guys, it came up unexpectedly (and, on Isak’s part, unwillingly), yet Jonas doesn’t beat him up over it.

When Magnus comes back down, pizza in tow, Isak’s phone buzzes.

> **Kosegutt69:**  
>  Come over whenever
> 
> **EnJapanskSideDish2121:**  
>  Be there in a few

———

 

Isak was right, after all. He has hooked up with this guy before, and, like he remembers, it’s a little rough—pinned wrists and (hard) bites on hips and a few bruises (but the good kind—the kind that make everything hurt really good). And all it really does is manage to make Isak forget everything for a few hours. When his eyes are scrunched closed, letting his other senses relax and heighten, all he sees is black.

And then he’s face down in the pillow asleep. Fuck. He really doesn’t mean to keep crashing at his hookup’s—blurry eyed and half-confused when he wakes up at the crack of dawn to sneak out, but, well, here he is.

 

He sits up on the bed, swinging his legs over the side gingerly as he drags his hands down his face, pulling the skin. His body is sore. Used up. It’s not fulfilling at all. But Isak doesn’t know anything else, only knows happiness in short spurts that end abruptly by his own doing. And he knows _this,_ at least—knows that he’s torturing himself by filling the void temporarily. But he doesn’t know anything other than this.

And because of this, he gets ready to set himself up for yet another round of _Isak: The Emotional Masochist._ This time, with Even. The kind that’s so good when it’s good, it hurts so much worse when it’s over and there’s nothing left to pretend.

His thumb hovers over his dim screen, trailing down to the home button with another finger on the lock, ready to take a screenshot of his mother’s last message: _What are you doing for fall break? I reserved a day up at the cabin if you and Even want to join us. This Saturday!_ He does, and he even gets as far as attaching the image to a message to Even. 

He doesn’t send it, though.

But he also doesn’t delete it. Isak just leaves the screenshot abandoned in the message box—ready to go if he ever decides to pull up Even’s contact again.

He closes his eyes for a few moments. A quiet, deep breath to steady himself. It’s shaky on the exhale.

Quickly and quietly, he throws on his clothes in no particular order—shoes probably on the wrong feet—and heads out the door.

It’s probably a bad sign that he has very little idea where he is when he steps outside. So he waits by the tram stop, panicking when unfamiliar lines pass by until finally, yes, thank god, there’s his. He takes a seat absentmindedly, head thrown back so his curls drape against the cold, frosted window.

After two stops, horror in the form of a tall, blonde, handsome boy makes way through the double doors, doing a _double take_ at Isak. Both of their breaths audibly and visibly hitch when they meet eyes, and the old woman trying to make her way on to the tram pushes Even weakly, knocking him off balance and sending him flying. Right into Isak’s lap.

“Fuck,” Even breaths, getting up immediately. “I’m so sorry.” He dusts his pants off awkwardly, and takes a seat across from Isak in the isle, who, is still holding his breath.

There’s a rift between them, like two tectonic plates seconds away from an earthquake. And it’s not the kind of tension that Isak expects, either. Not the awkward _I need to get off this tram immediately_ kind of tension. Not the _sorry I didn’t text you back because you were being an asshole to me in front of your friend_ tension. No. It’s the kind that sets him on fire.

Even, though, like always, is never phased by anything. Instead, when he steadies himself into a comfortable seat, one leg crossed so his ankle rests on his knee—manspreading over two seats like an asshole, he fucking smiles at Isak. Warm and genuine like he’s actually glad to see him. There’s a little mystery in there, too. And maybe a little teasing. Maybe even a hint of sadness. Even raises an eyebrow, like _c’mon, Isak. What are you waiting for?_

Isak’s still on fire—dangerously close to feeling any sort of white, and god, isn’t that pathetic.

“Valtersen,” Even starts, tongue gliding once over his teeth with a click at the end, “are you doing the tram ride of shame?”

It’s probably glaringly obvious—Isak didn’t even look in a mirror before he made his way outside, and, come to think of it, made no attempt to cover any sort of mark he can feel on his neck—hot and bruised and tender. Isak’s eyes go wide. He does a nervous swallow and opens his mouth to start explaining himself, but Even cuts him off.

“Your hair,” Even starts, pointing up to the curls on top of Isak’s head in disarray. “And your shirt is on backwards,” he bobs his head towards it. “And…” he finally trails, biting his lip and placing a hand to his own neck, as if to give Isak a hint.

Isak tightens his scarf, which is hanging loosely. He can feel the bruise there, probably big and purple.

Even leans back, a smile on his lips Isak wants to kiss slap off. “I can’t believe you’re cheating on your fiancé,” he finishes, hand to his heart with softening eyes, and if Isak didn’t know any better, Even might _actually_ be offended.

“Jealous?” It’s the only thing Isak can think to say.

“I would hope your future husband would be jealous of you cheating on him,” Even replies seriously.

Isak just nods his head and looks out the window, unsure of what to say next. Besides meeting Even for the first time, they’ve never been together not under false pretenses. It feels strangely foreign—the fact that Isak can’t reach out and kiss him. Can’t bump their noses together and tell him how much he means to him, because no one is here to witness it.

None of these things change Isak’s mind. He still wants to cross over into that white area—to make everything real.

“How’s your mom?” Even smiles sincerely. “I miss her.”

Isak snorts. Genuinely. Because right. His mom. “Good, I think,” he huffs. “She misses you too.”

“So you still haven’t told her?”

Isak looks down, playing with his thumbs and shuffling his feet. “Haven’t really talked to her in a few days,” he admits. “Or anyone,” he adds, a glance up and halfway wanting to mend whatever is between them, to let Even know that it’s not just him Isak’s been ignoring, although he’s still kind of pissed.

“I’m going to KB,” Even offers, probably in place of an _are you ok?_ that seems way too intimate for a public tram, three whole meters of space between them. “If you want to join me.”

Isak thinks, flattening his hair and zipping up his jacket to hide the hem of the tag on his backwards shirt. He pulls his scarf a little tighter. He could go. Actually spend time (for the first time) with Even in public, not hiding (and reveling) behind the falsehood of their fake engagement simply to appease his mom. And him, for all of the wrong reasons.

“I’m just going to do some homework,” Even explains, filling the silence so Isak can have more time to make his decision. Which is slowly ticking away as the tram comes to a stop and Even gets up, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.

Isak doesn’t say anything, just gets up and follows Even out the double doors and onto the platform, crossing the street with him as they head in the direction of KB.

It’s warm inside. Sweet smelling and quiet with ambient noises of espresso dripping and people typing and chatting. He’s hesitant to pull off his scarf—all of his layers for that matter, which feel like his only shield against the creeping vulnerability Even’s presence seems to impose on him, but he does—sweat already sticky at his neck and nose.

“What do you like?” Even’s asking, plopping his backpack on the chair that belongs to the corner table, motioning for Isak to sit. “You look like a double Americano kind of guy.”

“That sounds good,” Isak shrugs, sitting—although he’s not quite sure what that is.

Even pats his shoulder on his way to order, leaving Isak reeling at the sudden (and sudden lack thereof) contact. While he’s in the clear, he tucks his arms into his longsleeve shirt, spins it around front, and pokes his arms back out so it’s sitting proper. Then, he pulls his phone from his pocket and swipes it unlocked, the drafted message to Even popping up. Isak hits the back arrow and opens up his chat with Magnus.

> **ISAK:**  
>  How’d it go with Julian last night?

Before he has time to wait for a response, though (and as if Magnus is even awake right now), Even is sliding a tall mug full of whatever a double Americano is across the table to Isak, something similar looking in his own hands. He sits down and digs through his backpack, pulling out his laptop, a textbook, a large sketchpad, and a small binder full of fancy looking pencils.

“You know,” Isak starts, taking a sip of his double Americano. It’s surprisingly good. “You’ve explained it to me a million times, but I still don’t understand your degree,” Isak pokes.

“Biological and—”

“And Pre-Medical illustration,” Isak finishes, “yeah, I know. I just don’t understand what it is.”

Even flips open his sketchbook to a random page, squints at it, and flips through a few more before he finds one that seems worthy. He hands it to Isak.

Littered across the page are extremely detailed drawings of the anatomy of some sort of beetle—sections of it, like he’s drawing the dissection. Full figures of it. Blown-up, detailed portions of wings and eyeballs and feet. They look like black and white photographs.

“Woah,” Isak hums, his signature smile-frown on his lips to hide how impressed he is. “These are really good.”

Even smiles, grabby hands stretched out for his notebook to be handed back. “I think the most common question I get from people is, ‘why is it necessary? Can’t you just take pictures?’ And that’s true, you can take pictures,” Even jerks his head, “but people don’t realize the subtleties of everything they learn. Like, say you’re a med student,” he smiles at Isak, “or a vet med student. Sometimes when you’re learning about the anatomy of, say, a beetle. Or a horse or a dog, you don’t want literal pictures of dissected animals in your textbooks just to learn how a fucking kidney works.”

Isak nods, taking a sip of his coffee. “I’ve never thought about it like that,” he hums. “But you’re right. I don’t think there’s more than a handful of actual pictures in any of my textbooks. They’re all drawings.”

“And someone has to draw them,” Even smiles. He’s all warm, and Isak is melting right to the floor—gooey smile and everything.

“You’ve had to take some science classes, then?”

“Yeah,” Even nods, opening his binder and taking out a notably sharp pencil. “But they’re not my favorite.”

“That’s impressive, though,” Isak confesses, looking at Even’s hand moving on the page over another sip of his Americano. “Most people are either one or the other. Science or art. Left brained or right brained. Like me,” Isak laughs. “I can’t draw to save my life. It’s cool your brain works that way.”

Even chuckles, eyes still down on his paper, pencil stopping momentarily only to resume smoothly. He turns a little colder. “Yeah,” he sighs, “my brain definitely isn’t normal.”

 

———

 

It’s still early when Isak walks the short distance back to his apartment from KB—crisp air that lets him see his breath as he exhales. Despite this, he feels warm all over. Smiling at strangers who pass him because he just can’t help it. Everything feels fine for now—still unresolved, but fine—and that’s good enough for Isak. 

So fine, actually, that he feels a little brave. As he rounds the corner, one block left until his destination, he pulls out his phone and swipes it open, pulling up the drafted but not yet sent message to Even.

The screenshot of his mom’s text remains in the textbox, and Isak adds to it.

> **ISAK:**  
>  Has this gone too far? Or are you ready for one last hurrah?  
>  I should probably tell her the truth
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  You’re going to tease me with a weekend cabin getaway and then break off our engagement?  
>  Wow, Isak  
>  I am hurt

Isak locks his phone with a dopey grin and stuffs it back into his pocket. He knows Even will agree to come, which means he’s not upset at Isak despite that misunderstanding after Lea’s wedding reception and Isak ignoring him because of it.

Maybe it’s for the best it didn’t happen. Drunk off his ass (Even too) and making out with Even in his kitchen, sitting on the counter with Even pressed between his legs sounds more than inviting, but it also gives them an excuse to write off the situation. _Oh, it was just the alcohol._ (Everything gets blamed on the alcohol.) He’s still a little bitter, sure—dangerously close to slipping into that white, finally free from the shadows, just him and Even with no need for witnesses—but there’s always next time.

And that thought alone makes Isak backpedal, because underneath all of these thoughts, these daydreams, lies hope.

And hope is dangerous.

Hope is the most dangerous thing Isak can feel when it comes to his life in black and white. He’s been enjoying it, sure, almost aching for it, but there will come a time when he knows he’ll have to shut it all off for good. The hope. The white. Even. Everything.

He’s almost regretting sending Even the message, but it’s too late now.

> **EVEN:**  
>  What time should I pick you up on Saturday?

The white is doing this thing now—creeping from Isak’s phone screen into his fingers like roots. Thin, wiry, white roots. It’s different from the flash, which is all consuming in the most poignant way. It’s small and subtle and risky and addicting, something Isak could get used to without being knocked on his feet every time. And maybe that’s even more dangerous.

Before Isak can reply, only a few meters away from the front door of his apartment, he stops dead in his tracks. A familiar buzzed head is ducking out the entrance, doing a quick glance around before he darts across the street.

Elias doesn’t see Isak, though. He just keeps walking.

Isak can hear Eskild in the kitchen when he gets inside, quietly shutting the door behind him and debating on whether now is a good time to prod. But Eskild makes that decision for him, poking his head around the corner into the hallway when Isak passes.

“Hot date?” Eskild asks, returning to the dishes he had stopped washing. 

Isak takes a side step in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. “Um, more or less,” he mumbe-laughs, a hand on the back of his neck under his scarf. “I saw…”

Eskild stops washing the plate currently in his hands, and turns his head around to Isak, who now regrets saying anything at all.

“I saw your boyfriend on the way out,” Isak finishes, eyes darting from Eskild’s to his own feet multiple times due to embarrassment. “Don’t worry, though,” he continues, “he didn’t see me.”

Eskild makes a sound, somewhere between a hum and a groan that seems less than interested. “Yeah, he spent the night,” he says.

Isak starts removing his layers—scarf first and then hat and jacket, making himself comfortable. “It’s been awhile,” he smirks, but in a kind way. “Everything going alright, then?”

Eskild’s bad at hiding his bad moods. He shrugs his shoulders, and Isak can feel the tension in them. He acts like it’s not big deal, returning to the sink to finish the dishes, but his face is giving it all away. The uncertainty. The doubt. The worry.

“You can talk to me, Eskild,” Isak prods.

An eyeroll, and finally Eskild turns all the way around to face Isak, hands on the counter behind him with a raised eyebrow. “Baby Jesus,” he starts, a finger in the air that quickly points to him, “I am _your_ guru. This isn’t a two way street.”

“I didn’t say I had any advice for you,” Isak snaps. “I just said you could talk to me.”

“Sit,” Eskild motions to the table, turning around to face the cupboard behind him and pulling down two coffee cups—filling them with the remnants of what’s in the pot by the stove. He slides one over to Isak. It’s exceptionally worse than the double Americano Even bought for him earlier.

“Thanks,” Isak says anyways, bringing it to his lips and hiding a grimace.

“I don’t expect you to understand, since you’ve never been in a relationship—” Eskild starts.

Isak rolls his eyes, effectively cutting him off. “I’m not a child, Eskild.”

“I know! I know,” Eskild defends with a smile. “I’m just saying. Sometimes things are very complicated, and it’s hard to understand.”

“Ok,” Isak squints his eyes, the elbow resting on the kitchen table extended with a questioning hand in the air. “What’s so hard to understand.”

Eskild plays with the rim of his mug, looking down in its contents and biting his lip. He’s on the verge of words, taking his time and sorting them out. “That’s just it,” he says quietly, soft eyes up to Isak, and they look a little blurry with tears. “I don’t know.”

Isak lowers his mug, which is hovering at his lips. Without words, he conveys to Eskild to go on with a small eyebrow raise.

“He won’t tell me,” Eskild continues, voice breaking. “He won’t tell me what’s going on. And lately he’s gone for days at a time—and all I get are a few texts back, telling me not to worry he’s just busy. And then he’ll come over unannounced, crying, holding on to me all night and telling me he never wants to let go.”

Isak tries to put himself in a place he can understand, but it’s hard. Hard when the only thing he can pull similar experience from is all based on a lie. So he just reaches his hand out to squeeze Eskild’s, whose cheeks are now running with silent tears.

“You know he’s Muslim, right?” Eskild squeaks, pressing his palm to Isak’s in solidarity, holding on like a lifeline. “I don’t know if his parents found out or what, but,” he says through tears, “but he won’t tell me, and I don’t know what to do.”

Eskild lets go of Isak and furiously wipes his face, dragging his fingers over his eyes and pulling at the skin on his cheeks. He takes a few quick and deep breathes, unveiling his face from his hands with that signature Eskild smile, only this time accompanied by red, puffy eyes.

This other side of things, Isak realizes, is not perfect. This other world he’s had flashes of is tainted to make the good things good and the bad things bad. But he’s already had a taste of that.

“But you look like you had a fun night,” Eskild changes the subject, his genuine smile spoiled with tear spots and flushed cheeks. He’s pointing to Isak’s neck, the bruise probably overwhelmingly purple now that it’s had time to settle.

Isak puts a hand to his neck, covering it. “Sure,” he agrees.

“Take a shower,” Eskild pats his shoulder, one foot in front of the other on his way to the hallway. “You smell like sex,” he whispers with a grimace.

Isak pulls his phone out, two texts in mind after that conversation. The first one is to Even.

> **ISAK:**  
>  Saturday as early as possible. It’s about a two hour drive to the cabin.
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  :)

The second one is to Sana.

> **ISAK:**  
>  Sorry for getting back to you so late  
>  Wednesday is fine  
>  We can study after class  
>  I do have one question, though
> 
> **SANA:**  
>  What’s up, Isabell?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Not to be rude, but  
>  Will your parents mind that I’m in your house?
> 
> **SANA:**  
>  Why would they mind…?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Because, you know  
>  I’m gay
> 
> **SANA:**  
>  I highly doubt that your sexuality will come up at all when you’re at my house  
>  But no, Isak  
>  They won’t mind  
>  They never would  
>  They’re very open people

———

 

It should be illegal to be up and ready by seven in the morning on a Saturday. Isak is groggy, grouchy, and caffeine deprived. But he’s also awake (that counts as a win, okay?), fully-dressed, and ready to go—sitting on his bed and willing his eyes not to close again as he waits for Even’s text.

> **EVEN:**  
>  Here

His insides squirm, and it’s hard to tell if it’s in a good way or not. Like most times before he’s about to embark on… whatever this thing he has with Even is, Isak’s brain is backpedaling for a way out, screaming _TURN AROUND—BAD IDEA_ like a storm siren: loud and constant.

But he ignores it. Readies himself to slip into Isak: Even’s Fiancé mode—full of sweet nothings and everythings. Full of pecks on lips and cheeks and hands. Full of _I’m so proud of yous_ and _isn’t he greats?_ and all of the things he’s never heard before that make him feel like an actual person. An actual person worthy of love.

“Good morning,” Even hums, patting the passenger seat as Isak opens it and slipping a hot, steaming to-go cup in his hands. He’s way too chipper for this early in the morning, Isak notes, but that fact puts a smile on his face as he takes a sip.

“Thanks,” Isak mumbles—dry throat and scratchy voice because this is the first thing he’s said today. Even resumes his signature pose—one arm draped around the passenger side headrest with one hand steering—as he pulls out onto the road and makes way for the interstate.

Even pulls Isak’s beanie off his head, ruffling his curls and making sure to scratch his scalp. It feels way too good, and Isak wills himself not to shut his eyes and indulge in it, so he tries to give Even his best side eye.

“You’ll have hat hair all day if you keep that on,” Even smirks, patting the top of his head and resuming position. “Are you a talk show kind of guy or a music kind of guy this early?” He asks, glancing down to the car radio and turning it on before he glues his eyes back to the road.

“Music,” Isak says slowly over another sip, resting his head all the way back on the headrest and closing his eyes—if he’s not careful, he’s dangerously close to falling asleep again. Warm and cozy under all his layers with the light rocking of the moving car. Quiet music in the background and Even beside him.

And this could be bliss for two hours, if Isak lets it be.

“Play with my hair again,” he whispers in his half-sleep.

Isak can’t see Even through his closed eyes, but he can practically feel the smug smirk radiating off of him.

“Hmm?” Even asks.

Isak feels his face grow warm, brave enough to say it once but not to repeat it. “Never mind,” he murmurs.

But Even’s hand finds its way back to Isak’s hair—fingers twisting curls and short nails lightly scratching the soft areas down by his neck. It stays like that for a few minutes, before it finds a place somewhere between his right ear and neck, drawing lazy circles over and over again.

And Isak feels white all over—he’s savoring every touch he’s never experienced in quite this way. He’s been seconds away from sleep for awhile now, but forces himself to stay awake only to revel in it all.

He thinks of all the times he’s slept next to someone—in a comfy, nice bed, a trade up from this car. But it’s never been this warm. This intimate. No one’s ever woken him with hands running through his hair, because no one’s ever wanted to. No one’s ever wanted _him_ for more than a night.

It starts to snow lightly—the kind of flakes that linger in the air but don’t stick to the ground.

“What does your mom have planned?” Even’s asking in a whisper, fingers still lazily spiraling around stray curls. Softness is in his voice, like he’s curious enough to ask, but only so curious to not ask loudly. Not not wake Isak if he is asleep.

Isak hums, head rocking sideways in Even’s direction and preening it’s way deeper into his hand. He keeps his eyes closed, afraid if he opens them this moment might not be real. “I think she invited her boyfriend and Lea and her husband, and I bet she’ll make a big brunch when we get there,” he starts. He feels Even’s hand leave, almost whimpering at the loss of contact, but feels him pry the to-go cup from his laxing hands and sets it in the cup holder so he doesn’t spill. In a moment, his hand resumes, finding a comfortable spot on Isak’s neck and scratching up and down lightly. Isak probably visually relaxes at this, because he hears a satisfied snort from Even, but he’s too tired to care. “And we’ll probably just relax,” he continues. “I bet she brought movies and games and a bunch of food.”

“Sounds cozy,” Even adds. 

His hand makes it’s way further down Isak’s neck, and Isak winces when he accidentally scratches over the bruise there.

“Oh, sorry,” Even apologizes, hand hovering over the spot momentarily before he settles for a place higher on Isak’s head, fingers still.

Isak peeks his eyes open, and Even’s gaze is darting to the spot on his neck, teeth locked into a grit.

Isak closes his eyes again, jerking his head softly into Even’s hand to physically ask him to keep going. He does, fingers beginning again before he lifts them away, and Isak opens his eyes to see Even reach for the stereo.

“Do you mind if I turn this song up?” Even asks, bumping up the volume just a bit before Isak nods his head and it’s suddenly loud enough to hear the actual words. “This is a good one,” he notes, fingers like fire to the touch back in Isak’s curls.

Isak listens and enjoys—all of his senses keen and sharp and piercing in the best possible way. He feels Even’s grip tighten in his hair, pulling gently as he starts to sing. It’s low and lovely and Isak’s melting right into the passenger seat, paying careful attention to the words that are suddenly starting to set a fire in his heart.

_“Oh it's true—_  
You're the color if you only knew,  
Every star in the sky that's you.  
If you saw you the way that I do,  
We could be beautiful.” 

Isak opens his eyes, looking up at Even from his slouched position, who is looking right back at him, words dancing on his lips and realizing this song is a more than a song. It feels like a premonition.

When the vocals die out, Isak looks out the windshield. Oslo is far behind them in the distance, nothing but country surrounding them now. Out here, the snow is sticking—piling up on the road and on the dirt. Everything is a blinding white. Everything.

 

———

 

They’re the last ones to arrive, Isak’s mom greeting them warmly and shoving cups of cocoa at them before they even enter the threshold of the cabin. They shed their winter layers, thinner, softer ones underneath, and get comfy. Marianne’s babbling aimlessly—something about brunch as she makes her way back to the kitchen and points towards the den, where Lea and her husband are curled under a blanket on the large, L shaped couch.

They exchange brief, genuine smiles and Lea and her husband turn back towards the movie, completely engrossed. Even takes a seat in the corner section, one leg bent and resting on the cushion with his opposite arm draped over the back—an invitation for Isak to sit.

He does, the sudden closeness as he snuggles into Even’s side—his _fiancé’s_ arm coming down to slip behind him and hold on to Isak’s waist—making him tingle all over. Even squeezes the soft skin, shirt ruffled up under his touch and it’s warm all over.

Lea shuffles in her seat, digging around her pile of blankets for a spare one and throws it at Isak and Even, winking. 

“Thanks,” Even smiles, spreading the blanket out over the two of them—all the way up to their shoulders. “What are we watching?”

“Frances Ha,” Lea smiles over a sip of something hot in her mug, head resting against her husband’s shoulder. “It just started like ten minutes ago, do you want me to rewind?”

“If you don’t mind,” Even smiles weakly. “Sorry, I just really like films, and it’s rare when I’m forced to watch something I haven’t seen before. I usually just get stuck in the rut of watching my ten or so favorites over and over again.”

“No problem,” Lea reaches across her husband for the remote, hitting some buttons to bring up the title screen and selecting _play from beginning._

Isak feels Even relax against him, his hand still wrapped comfortably around the bare skin of his waist—arms so long they basically reach around to touch his stomach. Even’s fingers twitch voluntarily, dragging over Isak’s skin and making all of his cells dance in anticipation every time they trail down.

It’s really not necessary, now that they’re shielded by the blanket—this public display of affection not a show for anybody who can see. But Isak doesn’t stop Even. Doesn’t lean away. Instead, he inches closer, scooting down and resting his head back in the space between Even’s collarbone and neck. And this only makes Even squeeze him tighter, his other arm coming and flushing itself all the way across Isak’s front so he’s completely trapped in Even’s embrace under the blanket.

Isak has never been turned on by cuddling, but, well, here he is.

It’s hard to focus on the movie. Everything in Isak’s brain is _Even Even Even_ —every move. Every breath. Every time his fingers trail or his hand squeezes or he shifts to get even comfier. All it does is make Isak excited for whatever fake kiss is coming, and hopefully soon.

But that’s the thing. This is starting to get less and less fake for Isak. He closes his eyes, thinking about how dangerous that really is, but ignores everything he knows and scoots closer, basically in Even’s lap by now.

There comes a point during the movie where Even suddenly pauses everything. His breathing. His little brushes against Isak’s skin. So subtle Isak would have missed it if he blinked. In fact, Even’s only movement seems to be be holding on tighter to him, like he’s afraid to let go.

Isak pays attention to him for a moment. Even’s lips are parted. His shiny blue eyes in awe. He does a nervous swallow, looking finally to Isak to meet his gaze and then back at the TV, a slight head nod that Isak might just be imagining.

The protagonist of the movie, Frances, is on screen. Isak admittedly doesn’t know what’s happening, but he listens to her soliloquy.

_“It’s that thing when you’re with someone… and you love them and they know it, and they love you and you know it… and you look across the room and catch each other’s eye, but not because you’re possessive, or it’s precisely sexual, but because that is your person in this life. It’s this secret world that exists right there… in public, unnoticed, that no one else knows about. It’s sort of like how they say that other dimensions exist all around us, but we don’t have the ability to perceive them. That’s what I want out of a relationship. Or just life, I guess.”_

Isak’s watching Frances on screen, his stomach tightening with every word she says, as if life itself picked this movie—this moment—for them to watch in each other’s presence under this false pretense. To remind them.

He doesn’t see Even move from the corner of his eye, but suddenly Isak’s jaw is being gripped comfortably with a hand, turning to face him sideways. And then Even is kissing him. Isak keeps his eyes open for a second, watching Even’s smash shut in a way that almost looks pained. 

If perfect kisses exist—the kind that are so full of love and light it makes Isak’s head spin—this is it. This is what they are like. Like all of his organs have been filled with air and are setting comfortably inside him—rising when he inhales; falling when he exhales. Everything is light and bright and vivid in all shades of white.

They might have never parted if it weren’t for Isak’s mom—a dopey grin on her face as she peeks around the entryway to the den of the cabin, announcing brunch is ready.

The loss is immediate when their lips part from one another’s, all of Isak’s organs solidifying again in a painful way that only doubles when he looks into Even’s eyes, which are bright and shiny and smiling and only an inch away—daring Isak to break the gaze first. And he doesn’t, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he physically can’t. Like he’s trapped in this moment in time, and really, would that be such a terrible thing? Wondering if a look like this is more than just good acting on Even’s part. Wondering if it means something else, because as far as Isak’s concerned, if his face is any indication for how he feels, he’s not acting at all.

Lea and her husband have already gotten up to leave—Isak can hear them and his mother chatting in the kitchen—so it’s just him and Even, eyes still locked to each other. Screaming at each other to say something real and wondering if it’s really necessary when they’re still so close together. Still dragging fingers over skin under this blanket. Still holding their breaths as they look into each other’s eyes after that kiss. Still with no witness.

Even smiles. “Are you hungry?” 

Isak is, but for just about everything besides food. For another kiss, maybe. To stay here on this couch, under this blanket, in this cabin away from everything unimportant and close to everything that is.

“Sure,” he agrees with a small turn of the head. And he makes the mistake of lowering his eyes to Even’s lips, correcting himself with a creeping blush and a sinking heart as gazes up again.

Even cocks his head with a cute smile—still no intention to let go—and leans in, placing a small, soft, and sweet peck to Isak’s lips.

This time, when there’s no one around to witness, Even doesn’t apologize.

 

———

 

That kiss lingers all around Isak for the rest of the day, bloated and full but warm and happy on his fifth? Sixth? Hot cocoa with peppermint schnapps. 

And all of their other kisses happen again in the safety and security of their company—Marianne and her boyfriend. Lea and her husband. And they’re still good. Isak’s still buried deep deep under the snow—everything coated in a sheen of white, but that kiss, although the most fleeting, is his favorite one of the day.

Which is saying a lot, seeing as how Even practically has him coming undone on the couch right now—the night filtering in and creating a dark glow, amplified by the TV screen and abandoned board games on the coffee table, half finished. Even’s hands are on Isak’s thighs under the blanket in the back corner of the couch, and his lips dare themselves to part open every few moments to remind Isak kisses don’t have to be sweet.

Isak’s light headed and a little embarrassed, pulling away with cheeky smiles that are too drunk to hide his _please stop, I’m becoming a complete mess under your touch, and you know it’s driving me insane_ facial expressions. Even doesn’t care, he leans in to kiss Isak again.

“Is everyone okay to drive home?” Marianne asks, turning the TV off when the movie ends and interrupting them yet again. “I don’t want to kick everyone out, but we should get back on the road, I’ve got work in the morning.”

Lea’s husband nods with a laugh, fishing his keys out of his pocket with Lea asleep on his shoulder.

“Are you okay to drive?” Isak asks Even, bopping him softly on the nose with one finger and a smile.

“You’re the one who had six hot cocoas,” Even laughs. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Another soft, quick kiss. Isak melts into it all the same.

“I love you guys,” Marianne grins, opening her arms to both Isak and Even as they stand up and begin to leave. “Have a safe drive home.”

Isak holds on to his mom, whispering a quick _I love you too_ into her hair and letting Even hug her afterward. They exchange a whisper Isak doesn’t hear.

He’s dreading this moment—this moment when they walk to the door and leave the cabin. When they get in the car and drive home. When the white seeps out of him and he returns to all black like the night outside.

And it’s almost worse the way Even prolongs it, holding his hand all the way until the car; resuming his signature position when they get on the road; playing with Isak’s hair on the drive home. Because now the white just never leaves. It dulls into the background of Isak’s life, some flashes now more intense than others, and it’s hard to guess at which point Isak will be left hanging back into the black. Whether it will be here and now, the white dull as he falls asleep in the passenger seat, or vivid and bright with a parting kiss.

Which is worse? He can’t decide, really. One is surely less painful than the other, but he’s addicted to these intense immersions—addicted to letting the avalanche hit him full on. So he can’t tell if he’s disappointed or not when Even wakes him up as he pulls up to the curb outside his apartment and they part with nothing but soft smiles and goodbyes and thank yous, Even’s hand giving Isak’s curls one last scratch. One last little tug. And everything is a dull shade of white, slowly fading away.

But there’s something different that lets Isak know not to be disappointed. There’s a look they’re giving each other—the same look as before on the couch, right before Even kissed him with no audience. And that keeps Isak hoping.

When he ascends the staircase to his apartment, sleepy and warm and happy, his phone buzzes.

> **MAGNUS:**  
>  Sorry for getting back to you so late, man  
>  Everything is chill! I was busy  
>  If you know what I mean  
>    
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Talk to me on tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/) Comments and kudos make me smile ear to ear.


	4. Chapter 4

Like most mornings, Isak wakes up to a long line of notifications trailing down his home screen. A few texts from his mom. From Even. A facebook message from Mahdi and a snap from Magnus. Several emails, Instagram likes, and, of course, several push notifications from Grindr. In fact, due to sheer, oblivious hope from last night mixed with a willingness to stop his addictive hook-up habit, his thumb starts to hover over the messages—on its way to tap through the app’s settings to mute them. But before he can, a facebook message from Sana pops up on the top of his screen. He taps it.

> **SANA:**  
>  Still on for Wednesday?  
>  Does after class work?

Before he locks his phone, he switches to his messenger app and looks at the texts from Even, which have a timestamp on them not far after he dropped Isak off last night.

> **EVEN:**  
>  You know in the kitchen at the cabin your mom asked me about a wedding date  
>  And she said she loved me  
>  And that she’s so happy you finally found someone  
>  Even though I’m a guy   
>  I think she was drunk, though

Isak needs a moment to figure out how to respond to any of that, the battle of _I need to tell my mom before this gets out of hand_ vs. _maybe I should ask her to host something else so I have an excuse to see Even again_ still raging in his head, like an angel and a demon on each shoulder. Only he can’t quite tell which one is which.

He rolls out of bed in nothing but his boxers, throwing on an oversized sweatshirt before making his way to the kitchen for some coffee and whatever Eskild is willing to share of his breakfast.

The kitchen, however, is empty. Pans with egg remnants sit on the stove, the empty carton itself on the counter. It’s not like Eskild to leave a mess, which makes sense now because Isak can hear him and someone else in the living room.

Isak peeks his head around the corner, and like he suspects, Eskild and Elias are under a blanket on the couch—plates with half-eaten breakfasts sitting on the coffee table with a muted TV in front of them, something old and black and white on the screen.

“Good morning,” Eskild sings when he spots Isak, who was actually just about to turn around. “I think last time you were on your way out when Elias came over?” he continues with a questioning inflection to his voice, and Isak doesn’t dare correct him on the fact their brief meetings have nothing to do with Isak’s absence—because Isak’s absences are usually due to Eskild shoving him into his room. Something must be different, though, because Eskild is smiling, cuddled up close to Elias on the couch and inviting Isak in.

Isak turns on his heel, puts on his best smile, and makes his way into the living room—standing in front of the couple with an awkward grin and waiting for Eskild to introduce the two boys who already know each other.

Elias, surprisingly, takes the lead—bending up from his seat and extending a hand for Isak to shake. “Elias,” he introduces himself.

And okay, I guess that’s the tone this is taking. They’re going to pretend they don’t know each other.

“Weren’t you with Even the other day?” He asks, knocking Isak off guard. Okay, maybe they aren’t going to pretend. Maybe Elias is going to force _Isak_ to pretend. Isak is lost, but not too shaken to start mico-aggressively shaking his head side to side—nervously eyeing Elias and Eskild while he tries as subtly as possible to let Elias know Even is _not_ a topic of discussion.

“Even?” Eskild asks brightly, ready for the gossip. He clicks his tongue and looks from Elias to Isak, eyes playful and knowing. “Isn’t he, isn’t he the guy who’s in your videos? And stuff?” he continues—the question to Elias but eyes still locked on Isak.

Elias nods, eyes up to Isak as well.

“And you were with him?” Eskild presses, sitting up on the couch now with elbows on his knees—holding his face in his hands endearingly, as if that might make Isak swoon.

But of course it doesn’t, it just annoys him. “Uhm, yeah,” Isak squeaks, lips pursed.

“He’s very handsome,” Eskild resumes, tongue in his cheek. “And very your type.”

“It’s not like that,” Isak rolls his eyes. His arms are crossed over his chest now, and he really doesn’t want to give Elias the side-eye, but he is. Which might work out in his favor, because Elias looks like he’s about to open his mouth and say something.

“Well, pretty boy,” Eskild defends, clapping a hand to Elias’s thigh and jostling him, like he’s getting him to agree, “maybe you should make it like that.”

Isak says nothing, just excuses himself with a small salute, a venomous nice to meet you, Elias (with emphasis on the _meet_ ), and a spin out the door—stopping in the kitchen to steal some leftover breakfast before retreating to his room—this time on his own accord.

He flops onto his bed with a piece of cold toast in his hand, pulling his phone off his charger and rolling onto his back. His plan is to stare at Even’s messages for about ten minutes, draft a few responses, and then delete them—but before he can, his thumb hovers over Magnus’s message from last night.

> __**MAGNUS:**  
>  Sorry for getting back to you so late, man  
>  Everything is chill! I was busy  
>  If you know what I mean  
>    
>    
> 

In the bliss of everything he felt yesterday, Isak had completely forgotten about this situation, which is now pounding him in the gut like a sack of bricks. In all honesty, Isak knows he was in deep, deep denial—praying that Magnus’s crush on Julian would be short-lived and blown over by now.

But it’s not. Because now Magnus has slept with him too. And has feelings for him, apparently.

Isak taps Magnus’s contact, but when he's about to start typing, he draws a blank. He could do it right now. Over text. Simple. Easy—way easier than looking at Magnus’s heartbroken face as he imagines Isak and Julian tangled up naked—wondering who was doing what and what that _what_ even was.

Like a premonition, a message from Jonas juts down from the top of his screen.

> **JONAS:**  
>  Did you tell Magnus yet?  
>  He told me he slept with Julian

It’s in this moment Isak realizes he hasn’t responded to a single notification. A dozen messages lay unanswered. More than a few snaps unopened. And he should answer them, he really should. So he starts with the easy one, to Sana:

> **ISAK:**  
>  Wednesday sounds good  
> 

And then to Jonas:

> **ISAK:**  
>  No, not yet

And then he opens Even’s messages, afraid if he doesn’t respond now he might never.

> **ISAK:**  
>  Yeah, that sounds like my mom.

To his surprise, Even answers immediately.

> **EVEN:**  
>  I thought it was nice. She really does love you.  
>  What are you up to?

Isak stares at his screen, almost in disbelief, the _What are you up to?_ burning into his brain. Because now this is crossing the imaginary grey line that exists somewhere between Isak and Even—no more than a pixel wide, and frankly, it’s too early in the morning for Isak to be stressing over any of this.

> **ISAK:**  
>  Just a lazy Sunday, I guess  
>  You?

Cool and collected, he hopes. Not too nosey, and straight to the point. He doesn’t have much practice talking to Even off the record, and now he’s worried he just sounds stupid. His hands are shaking as he types it, his eyes glazing over his phone as he waits for message bubbles to appear. One minute passes. Then two. But nothing happens, and Isak pockets his phone, getting up when he thinks he hears a ruckus in the living room—which probably means Elias has left and Eskild has started to loudly, passive-aggressively clean again.

“Uh, Eskild?”

Isak’s standing in the doorway to the living room again, where Eskild is, you guessed it, cleaning up.

He pretends to be busy, although he’s just folded the blanket to drape back over the couch, the plates gone and the pillows straightened and the room febreezed. So Eskild keeps his hands busy by straightening the pillows again like he’s just too preoccupied to give Isak any attention.

“Eskild?” Isak repeats, taking a step into the room now and standing with stiff arms at his sides—his teeth biting the inside of his cheek.

Eskild rolls his eyes, and Isak knows that the “perfect morning” scene he just witnessed with Elias must really not have been perfect at all, judging by Eskild’s mood swing.

“What, Isak?” He groans, turning around.

“I need some advice,” Isak shuffles. “From my guru,” he adds, knowing it will make Eskild preen a bit.

“From your guru,” Eskild huffs. It's supposed to be a question, but he’s more or less just repeating what Isak said in a fond chuckle, somewhere between impressed and charmed, his bitterness melting away. “Ok,” he continues, “what does my baby Jesus need? Is this about that Even guy?” He’s dancing his eyebrows now, lips curling over his teeth into a smile.

Isak tries to look less than thrilled, but can’t help his eyes from sparkling at Even’s name. “No,” he says seriously, talking fast now and getting to the point. “I actually need help with Magnus.”

Eskild narrows his eyes at him. “Are you trying to get with Magnus? Isak—”

“No no no no no,” Isak defends (for the second time, now, that he’s interested in Magnus), breathing out a big sigh and continuing. “It’s about Magnus’s new boyfriend. Or, kind of boyfriend, I think.”

“You slept with him,” Eskild nods like a fucking mind-reader, clicking his tongue to his teeth and taking a deep breath. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but interrupts his own train of thought, one hand out as if to stop Isak. “But not knowingly, right?”

Isak widens his eyes, offended. “How did you—God, Eskild. No, not knowingly!”

“Okay, okay!” Eskild backpedals, a small laugh like Isak is overreacting or something. “I thought so, I just wanted to be sure. It’s pretty common,” he goes on, “sleeping with someone who already slept with one of your friends. Especially when you meet on Grindr, which is what I’m assuming happened, yes?”

Isak purses his lips and nods, semi-ashamed to admit that to Eskild. Although it’s not necessarily a secret that Isak uses sex to destress.

“If Magnus thinks this guy is his boyfriend, Isak, you have to tell him.”

The mass of nerves that has been growing in Isak’s chest ever since this situation came to light is now sinking its way to his stomach at the truth, now deemed worthy by Eskild. Who is, understandably, right. And Isak’s known this all along—should have probably told Magnus right away—but now he’s on the top of that slippery slope, every passing day he holds on to this secret making it all seem worse. And the last thing he wants (besides a heartbroken Magnus) is for Magnus to not be his friend at all.

Isak nods his head again, this time with appreciation. “You’re right,” he agrees.

The conversation is over, but Isak is still lingering, waiting for Eskild to move or to say something else or to go back to cleaning. He doesn’t, though. He just stares at Isak, waiting for him to spew the inevitable—the big fat elephant in the room.

“You let me come out into the living room when Elias was here—” Isak begins.

“I was in a good mood,” Eskild snaps. “That’s all.”

“So,” Isak continues. “Things are okay again?”

When Eskild turns to face Isak, he’s not wearing the face Isak expects. It’s not hard-featured and narrowed and drawn in. No—instead, it’s soft and down-turn with watery eyes. Eskild doesn’t have to say _for now_ for Isak to know those words are on the tip of his tongue, trapped behind a throat swollen with tears that might threaten to break free if he speaks. And Isak hates it. He _hates_ seeing Eskild like this. Wishes they could switch roles and Isak could offer him words of wisdom. But although Isak lacks this wisdom, the wish is a futile one anyways, because even if Eskild wanted to tell Isak what is wrong, he can’t. Because he doesn’t know himself.

So Isak does the only thing that seems natural in this moment. He takes a step forward and offers his arms out, letting Eskild sink into his embrace with his chin on Isak’s shoulder. For only about the third or so time in Isak’s life, he’s hugging Eskild. And it’s the long, deep kind of hug that isn’t meant to say _hello_ or _goodbye_ —it’s the kind that’s meant to heal. And it’s only tradition that you hold on tight until the one who needs healing lets go.

So when Eskild finally does after a moment too long, all of the healing he can muster from Isak’s embrace absorbed, Isak watches him walk back to his room, practically destroyed.

And then he sends off two messages, because if he can’t help Eskild, at least he can help Magnus.

> **ISAK:**  
>  Hey Mags  
>  You free?
> 
> **MAGS:**  
>  I’m with mom today, she’s at the hospital  
>  I’m free tomorrow
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Hope she’s doing well  
>  Let’s hang tomorrow  
> 

The second message is to Julian.

> **EnJapanskSideDish2121:**  
>  Ready for round 2?
> 
> **FrankTheTank:**  
>  How about Friday?

———

 

“Have you eaten lunch yet?”

Isak feels strangely out of place in Magnus’s kitchen, shuffling all the words he wants to say through a filter in his brain; trying to find a way to not break Magnus’s heart. And, actually, just trying to fucking say it, because the longer he’s here, not saying anything, the chances of him continuing to not say anything climbs higher and higher.

Isak’s never been very good at just spitting it out, which is probably why Magnus looks so confused when Isak replies, “I slept with Julian,” to answer his question about lunch.

It comes out stunted and awkward and so fast Isak’s worried he might have to repeat himself—which is something he’s not sure if he can do.

And they just look at each other for a moment. Magnus’s frozen hand on the refrigerator door. Isak shrinking into his seat at the kitchen table. Both expressionless for a moment before Isak can feel his own face slump into shame as he watches Magnus’s shift into hurt. And then anger. And then disgust.

“Magnus—” Isak starts, getting up from the table and walking over towards his friend. Who, understandably, shrinks back and flinches in repulse as Isak tries to comfort him. “I didn’t know, Magnus! This was like a week before you told me about him.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Magnus defends, shaking his head frantically in denial. “He wouldn’t have done that. I tried to have sex with him, Isak. For weeks. _Weeks._ And he didn’t want to. We only had sex for the first time the other day.”

“Magnus,” Isak tries again, not really sure how to comfort a friend he’s royally fucked over. Because he’s royally fucked over his friends before, he’s just never had to apologize for it. “I’m so sorry. If I had known—”

“Why wouldn’t he have sex with me?” Magnus cuts him off, hurt. And maybe finally starting to be hurt by Julian, and not at Isak. Which, arguably, is a pretty tough transition, because it’s easy for Magnus to be upset with the person standing in front of him. Isak’s here. In person. A punching bag that Magnus can unleash his anger on before realizing his anger is rooted in rejection—and should be aimed at Julian.

This is the second time Isak’s seen someone start crying in the past 48 hours.

“Show me your messages,” Magnus suddenly demands, a hand outstretched and beckoning for Isak’s phone.

Isak reels. “What?”

“Show me your messages!” Magnus challenges again, his voice getting higher as he chokes back something in his chest. “Maybe I just wasn’t saying the right things—or sending the right pictures—or—” he cuts himself off with the lack of words, and Isak can see the airtight in his throat, one of those violent sobs behind it if he dares to exhale.

And Isak doesn’t know if he can handle that.

And there’s also no way in hell Isak is going to give Magnus his phone, especially since Isak and Julian’s last exchanged messages would be the end of everything between Isak and Magnus.

Isak wouldn’t be able to explain his way out of it.

Luckily (or, not really, everything is terrible right now), Magnus’s break down only a moment away is interrupted by blinding, white-hot anger. Magnus pulls out his phone from his pocket, which has just buzzed, and slides it open. One of those insane laughs escapes him. The kind that comes from a deep, dark place inside a person—the only reaction left when things are going horribly, horribly wrong. “It’s him,” Magnus laughs again, turning his phone around to face Isak. On the screen is their chat, and dated with a timestamp of only one minute ago is a message from Julian to Magnus: _Hey baby. Want to come over and spend a lazy Monday afternoon with me on the couch?_

It’s heartbreakingly domestic and sweet, and Isak himself can’t even pinpoint who Julian is, especially when all he can remember of him is his face pressed into a pillow—words too foul to repeat coming out of his mouth. And all of it in the throes of cheating on Magnus.

Isak can’t help but see other messages above the one he’s looking at. Long ones exchanged between Magnus and Julian filled with words like _baby_ and _love._

And there it is again. That mixture of jealousy and fondness. This time mixed with a little self-loathing for being jealous at all. Isak knows he’s reached an all-time low when he realizes he’s so desperate for love he’d cling on to the hurt that came with a broken heart if only it meant someone loved him in the first place.

“What are you doing?” Isak asks, almost horrified as Magnus turns his phone back around and starts typing furiously.

Magnus taps his screen for a long time before answering, his eyebrows knit together in anger. “I’m going to go see him and ask what the fuck is wrong with him—”

“Magnus.” Isak’s swiping his phone from his hand. “I know you don’t want to listen to me right now, but can you just try? For a second?”

“Isak.” Magnus echoes. His voice is cracking—so bad it’s almost bleeding. “Why didn’t he want to have sex with me?”

Isak scrunches his eyes closed, and he’s not sure if it’s from embarrassment or because he can’t stand the hurt look on Magnus’s face. He’s still holding his phone, and it’s buzzed again. Probably Julian. “Take a week, Magnus,” Isak warns. “Please. Just take one week before you respond.” He hands the phone back.

Magnus looks at the new, incoming message. His face falls even more if that were possible. They’re probably sweet and heartbreaking, and Isak sees his thumbs twitch in anticipation to respond.

“It has nothing to do with you, Mags,” Isak tries to comfort, although he really has no idea. He feels dirty. Disgusting. And every time Magnus looks up at him he knows he’s getting flashes of Isak and Julian. Skin on skin. “Whatever his problem is, it has nothing to do with you.”

Magnus almost laughs, and the smile on his face is obviously a nervous reaction—filled with self-disgust and heartbreak. “It’s hard to believe that,” he huffs, “when he was off banging you while I was practically begging him to sleep with me.”

They’re really not so different, Isak and Magnus. Spent their past sleeping around and hoping it might lead to something real. But there’s something about guys like Magnus and Isak, whose kisses are maybe leaking with misery and desperation that causes people to push them away. To use them for one night, and that’s it. And they keep sabotaging themselves to see those flashes of white Isak now knows Magnus has had a glimpse of, too.

“Just,” Isak starts, unable to answer his question and heading towards the door to leave. “Just know it’s not you, Mags, okay? It’s not you. It’s him.”

Magnus stops Isak with a hand on his shoulder, points back towards his seat at the kitchen table, and shoves him down into it in a way that seems like he wants Isak to stay. Then he spins back towards the fridge to open it. “What kind of sandwich do you want?” Magnus asks, the words almost foreign coming from his mouth after that conversation. “Is salmon okay?”

Isak blinks, then nods—obviously confused.

Magnus turns back to him when he fishes the ingredients from the fridge. “Thank you,” he says calmly, eyes downturn before making their way up to Isak’s. “Thank you for telling me.”

 

———

 

Isak does what he does best when he doesn’t know what else to do—when everything gets too loud and loose strings are left frayed at the ends. When he has no answers and all he sees when he shuts his eyes is black black black. He locks himself away for a full 24 hours with no contact to the outside world—grey hoodie and grey sweats with his head on his grey pillow. The grey sky outside turning dark with the night. The only thing he manages to do is drag himself to class, although his homework is sitting untouched and neglected on his desk.

Even finally responded to his question, although hours later—and Isak’s digging deep inside himself to feel any sort of hypocrisy at his own jealousy—because it’s been a whole day now that Isak stopped initiating any sort of conversation at all. His line of messages from Even look somewhat like this—Isak’s message timestamped at the top with Sunday’s date early in the morning:

> **ISAK:**  
>  Just a lazy Sunday, I guess  
>  You?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  You’re telling me  
>  I just took a killer nap  
>  How’s your mom? Any more family plans she wants me to attend?   
>  Is it really only Tuesday? This week has gone by so slow  
>  The cabin feels like weeks ago  
>  Isak?

It’s glaringly obvious. This thing between them. But Isak’s afraid he won’t know how to act when everything suddenly _isn’t an act anymore._

He wills himself to slide his thumbs over the screen—to save any drop of white that might be left before it all slips away for good.

> **ISAK:**  
>  Sorry  
>  It’s been a stressful few days  
>  So I definitely agree
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Everything alright?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I think it will be  
>  It’s starting to feel better already
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Got an exciting Wednesday to look forward to?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Ha  
>  I wish  
>  I’m just going to study with Sana  
>  And pretend like I’m going to pass this midterm
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I would wish you luck, but  
>  You don’t need it
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Can’t you just be a good sport and wish me luck anyway?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  It’ll cost you
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Then nevermind
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Hey!  
>  Rude  
> 

Isak’s smiling at his phone—one of those ones that warrant you a knowing stare from someone across the room, laced with a _who are you talking to?_ look and a cheeky grin. So at least he’s alone in the comfort of his own bed, free to do so. Because if he had to answer that question, he’d say _Even._ And if someone were to ask _who’s that?_ he’d have no idea.

 

———

 

Isak has actually never been to Sana’s house—has only studied with her in class or on campus or maybe even at Isak’s a few times. He thinks it’s their buffer: school. Without it, it’s hard to admit that they’d even be friends at all, given the stereotypes people must shove on both of them alone, let alone both of them together. But that’s what makes their friendship so special, so unique. The fact that they don’t care about what people think when they’re together. Because they are so much more than what people can see on the outside. Isak loves Sana because she’s unashamedly unabashed, and Sana loves Isak because… well. Isak can’t quite pinpoint that yet. He’s not sure why anyone would love him at all.

So this is a big step. Going over to Sana’s house is a big step for their friendship—and Isak definitely doesn’t hate the idea, although he is a bit nervous.

Which, okay, maybe he spoke too soon, because once Sana opens the front door and lets Isak take off his shoes and get comfy at the kitchen table of the Bakkoush household, his nerves skyrocket at the sight of Elias and Even making their way in from the living room.

Sana rolls her eyes at the sight of her brother but plays host anyway. “Isak,” she starts, “I think you know Elias? And Even?”

God, they must have _met_ about a thousand times already. Isak nods his head, locking eyes with Even, who, to his delight, is already looking at him in half wonder, half awe.

It does nothing to calm his wild heart. Isak can practically feel his pupils dilating—the urge to reach out and touch this boy almost unbridled. Because he knows nothing else, really, in the presence of Even. He’s experienced it, sure—all those times Even drags him away and he’s left hanging back in the black—but Isak’s thoughts never really stray. They always come back to Even.

Their gaze is almost asking a question, and it’s one neither one of them have an answer to: _When? When will I see you again? And under what circumstances? Will I be able to kiss you? To hold you? To love you like I pretend to do? Or will it be like this? And we’ll pretend again. This time, we’ll pretend what we're supposed to feel, almost as if everything has switched. So, when?_

Sana clears her throat with a smirk, and Isak snaps out of his trance—wondering just how long forest green was gazing into ocean blue. No more than a few seconds, right? _Right?_

Maybe not, because Elias breaks the tension with a cute laugh. He’s about to say something directed towards Isak, but stops himself mid-breath, glancing at Even as if he is the reason.

The loss of eye contact and the loss of words makes everything grow more awkward by the second—the four of them in the kitchen holding their breaths. Even and Isak with reddening faces. The Bakkoush siblings holding down knowing smiles.

“I was getting the camera and stuff to film on Friday,” Elias finally breathes out, directed towards Sana and throwing a thumb over his shoulder to indicate that’s exactly what he was doing in the living room. “We’re going to film at the apartment for the next video.”

Even nods his head in agreement, which confuses her.

“Why are you here, then?” She asks. But it seems like she already knows the answer, pushing Even’s buttons to make his face glow a brighter pink while she darts her eyes from him to Isak, who is looking at his thumbs in his lap like they’re the most interesting things on the planet.

“Yeah,” Elias prods with an elbow jab and a chuckle. “Why are you here?”

“To help you!” Even defends, switching back into confident-cool-guy with one eye on Isak. He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks down with a smile after a moment. “With the camera. And stuff.”

The elephant in the room grows larger if that’s even possible—squeezing its way through and pressing everyone against the walls, unable to breathe. It’s so large, Isak wonders if he should address it before no one can breathe at all.

Too late. Elias does. “Isak,” he starts with that smile, running a nervous hand over his buzzed head. “Even told me you guys have some extra material to add for the Hei Briskeby prank proposal video, and I was thinking we could film it on Friday? Kind of like a follow-up, and you guys can talk about the prank and how far it went and we can ask you some questions?”

When Isak doesn’t answer, mostly because his brain is frozen and he forgets all of the words he knows, Elias continues nervously, as if talking more might solve the problem.

“That prank video has the most views out of any of our videos, and I think people would really enjoy a follow up with a guest. Especially you, since—” he stops himself. “Just think about it, yeah?”

Isak takes a minute to respond. “No, I mean yeah,” His shakes his head with a nervous smile, which turns a little less nervous and a little mushier when he looks over at Even. “I mean, that’s why we did this whole thing, right?” He asks, his heart breaking with every word, chest tightening with every word, willing his eyes not to go glossy with every word. “For the video?”

Even swallows, his adam’s apple giving a dramatic bob with a falling face. “Right,” he agrees. “For the video.” It’s pained—at least Isak thinks so. (At least Isak hopes so.)

Sitting here a meter away from Even is painful. It’s so, so painful. But he can’t help but smile, because he can see himself—his own expression—in Even’s face, too. And maybe, just maybe, when Even decides he can give Isak the white—fill the cracks in his heart with it like elementary school glue—it won’t have to be so painful.

That _when_ is in both of their eyes again, screaming at each other for an answer no one can seem to give just yet.

“Cool,” Elias agrees, nudging Even with his shoulder as if to say _time to go._ Even gets the hint—one slow foot in front of the other with Elias on his tail on their way out of the kitchen—a soft, sad smile at Isak until he’s no longer in view.

Elias hangs back, ducking his head back through the door frame while Isak hears Even shuffle his shoes on. He makes knowing eyes with Sana, turns to Isak, and ducks his voice down to a whisper. “I’m sorry about the other day,” he says genuinely, his lack of elaboration needing no further context. “I didn’t know you were… were keeping something,” he jerks his head back to Even, “from, uh. Keeping something from Eskild.”

This makes Isak angry. His stomach contracts and his lungs still and he tries with all of his might to keep his face as neutral as possible, although he can feel it turning into a scowl. He blinks it away furiously, remembering what it was like to once stand where Elias stands. To feel what Elias feels. To hide everything from everybody. To feel like no one in the world is owed an explanation, not even the ones who care about you. Isak wants to slap his past self, but these emotions don’t transfer over to Elias. Instead, Isak wants to tell him everything will be alright. To tell him it’s hell and back again, but he’ll be there to listen if he needs someone to.

Isak twitches his lip. Opens his mouth. Shuts it again and wonders if it’s worth mentioning. When he blinks for a second too long, he sees Eskild—watery eyed and sniffling into Isak’s shoulder. So yes. Yes, it is. He opens his mouth again. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I didn’t know you were either.”

Sometimes it doesn’t do well to add hurt to more hurt, but sometimes it’s the only option. Isak doesn’t want to see this look on Elias’s face. He doesn’t want to see it painted with disappointment and confusion and worry—lingering bits of love and hopelessness mixed in.

Elias turns away.

“Elias—” Isak stops him, quick eyes over to Sana, who looks less than confused. Bored, actually, like maybe she’s given Elias the same spiel. Elias peeks his head through the doorframe again—his expression still a mixture of worried love. “Eskild loves you.” Coming from Isak’s mouth, it sounds like an oath. “You know that, right? He really, really cares about you. You should talk to him.”

 

———

 

Tossing and turning all night are not foreign concepts to Isak. It happens fairly often, mainly due to his racing thoughts and vicious anxiety. It hasn’t helped that the last few days have been hitting him with waves of stress from all corners of the ocean. Elias and Eskild and Magnus and Julian. And _Even._ And now the Hei Briskeby video.

Isak’s done a good job at resisting the temptation to call his mom and practically beg her to set up some sort of dinner or party or literally _anything._ Any excuse to see Even so they can stop awkwardly texting each other and eye-fucking each other in the Bakkoush kitchen. And Isak’s resistance to this temptation is saying a lot, actually, because he hasn’t turned to Grindr lately, either. So he’s just been sitting here. Frustrated beyond belief in all shades of black—not even making an attempt to uncover himself from it, however desperate that attempt may be.

> **EVEN:**  
>  Pick you up like old times?

It’s three o’clock in the morning. Why is Even texting him? (He doesn’t mind—honestly, he doesn’t. He’s just... _curious,_ okay? Too curious to pretend to be asleep like a normal person.)

> **ISAK:**  
>  And I thought I was the only one who had trouble sleeping
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Shit  
>  I thought you’d wake up to this
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I can always try to go back to sleep and pretend to wake up to it in the morning?  
>  Would that make you feel better?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Actually yes  
>  Get some sleep
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Speak for yourself
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  You need your beauty rest, Valtersen
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  See my previous message  
>  But yes  
>  You can pick me up tomorrow  
>  Like old times

He has no trouble falling asleep after that.

 

———

 

Before Isak knows it, the cameras are rolling and Elias is introducing the members of Hei Briskeby in the same tone of voice he uses to start every video.

It’s a lot less seamless than they make it look when their videos are polished and edited together. There are lots of trailing off on tangents. Inside jokes. People repeating themselves because they didn’t say something the way they liked.

But Mikael assures that he’ll edit it down.

“—And we have a special guest with us!” Elias is nudging Isak (who is smashed comfortably between Even and him on the couch of the spare room to their apartment) in the side with a million dollar grin.

Isak’s about as comfortable as he can get, considering he’s about to rip his heart to shreds as a guest on a Hei Briskeby video with Even and disclose the events leading past their fake engagement prank.

Even talks this time. “This is Isak,” he smiles over at him, patting his thigh and leaving his hand there. It’s agony, really, because Isak wants to turn towards him—fuck, _get on top of him_ —and confess his love in a menagerie of kisses. Little slow ones with brushing noses. Long, deep ones with lots of tongue and roaming hands. Passionate ones that seep with admissions and assertions. All of the ones he’s shared with Even before, but this time, for real. This time, to step into that white space he hasn’t seen for days and never return. Because the white space isn’t forbidden or fleeting or banned—or, at least, it doesn’t have to be. It’s simply just there. A part of life Isak doesn’t have but fiercely craves. And he wants to turn to Even, or for Even to turn to him, and admit it. Admit that it can be real. That they can live in this white space if they want to. “You probably remember him from the prank proposal video.”

God, every time Isak hears those words his heart bleeds a little. Like a stab in the chest.

“Oh, they remember,” Elias laughs, leaning forward and clicking something on his laptop next to the camera. “Let’s read some comments.” He clears his throat, scanning through the comment section of the prank video and stopping at the good ones. _“I can’t believe the first girl slaps Even. Sorry, man, but that was hilarious!”_ Elias reads aloud. “Was it hilarious, Even?”

Even runs his free hand through his hair, stopping it at the top of his head so his waves are all pushed back. One hand still on Isak’s thigh—his fingers dancing and driving Isak absolutely insane. He realizes he’s driving Isak insane, right? “I don’t know,” he chuckles. “It kind of hurt.”

“I thought it was funny,” Mikael chips in, which earns him a slight shove from Even as he removes his hand from his hair to push Mikael’s cheek playfully.

 _“How did you pick the guys?”_ Elias reads another comment. He looks towards Even for the answer.

“It was pretty random,” Even looks into the camera. “I think we’ve discussed it on previous videos, but I’ve dated both men and women, so I thought it would be fair to include both in the video. I honestly just chose people I thought were cute, regardless if I thought they’d be interested in me.”

Isak is _not_ looking forward to seeing his own dumb smirk and flushing cheeks at that comment later on when the video is published.

Elias smiles as he scrolls to a stop on what is another seemingly good comment. His lips curl into a wide smile, and he basically laughs out the next one. _“Holy shit that kiss! At the end! So! Hot!”_ When Elias looks back at the boys, he waggles his eyebrows.

“I was the only one,” Isak blurts, reddening immediately after he says it. The silence that follows his comment is one more of realization than confusion, but Isak fills the awkward lull again anyways. “At the end there—I was the only one you kissed.”

He turns up to meet Even’s gaze—which is just begging to be kissed again, if Isak is reading anything correctly. Which, admittedly, he’s probably not, but he recognizes those parted lips. Those soft eyes darting back and forth in wonder from the tip of Isak’s nose to his eyelashes to his lips and back all over again. Every freckle. Every dimple. Memorizing Isak’s face in a flash of bright blue love or lust or—fuck—Isak doesn’t know, but he’ll take it, whatever this look is. It’s the same look they shared on the couch at the cabin only a few days ago. That exceptionally unresolved look filled with something unsaid. Now begging to be let free in a scream of liberation. Isak thinks it sounds a lot like an _I want this to be real._ At least, those are the words he’s debated on recently.

“But, uh, speaking of the kiss, you guys have kissed quite a bit now, if what you’ve told me is correct, Even.”

Even stills as he snaps out of his trance, his fingers still around Isak’s thigh giving a slight squeeze. “We have,” he licks his lips before answering Elias.

“My mom was actually on the phone with me at the time,” Isak starts. “Thought the whole thing was real, so Even and I decided it would be funny for him to show up at a dinner party as my fiancé.”

“And how did that go?” Mutta laughs.

Even leans forward, shifting his hand back (probably incidentally) so it’s at the meaty part of Isak’s thigh—all the way towards the top. One inch up and it would fit into the warm spot where they were touching. When Even realizes, he slides it back down so slowly it couldn’t be anything less than purposefully sensual.

But—Isak’s horny for love, so.

“So well,” Even comments with a smirk, “that I returned again for his sister’s wedding reception and again for a family day up at his mom’s cabin.”

Mutta’s eyes go wide at the remark, one of his hands in the air in question. “So exactly _how many times_ have you kissed each other?”

Have Isak and Even stopped looking at each other? He’s already embarrassed at how in-fucking-love he’s going to look when the video is all edited together. But the only answer Isak can think of, definitely too shy to admit out loud, is _not enough._

Luckily, Even answers first—and although it’s not the same as Isak’s, it’s almost better. Maybe it’s the look in his eye when he says it—that deep, deep ocean blue with flecks of white that must be more than a coincidence. Because looking into them blinds Isak at all costs, but he doesn’t care, as dangerous as that sounds. He just wants to see the white. To remember it’s there.

“I don’t remember,” Even almost whispers.

“Yeah,” Isak repeats. “I don’t remember."

“And your mom?”

Adam’s question flings Isak back to reality, peeling his eyes away from Even’s. He answers with a stupid sounding, “Hmm?”

“Your mom,” Adam repeats. “Did she go along with it?”

“Yeah,” Isak laughs, shifting in his seat to get a little more comfortable (or, you know, maybe a little closer to Even). “I didn’t do a very good job at explaining it, though.”

“So tell me,” Elias laughs, his remark addressed to Isak as he rubs his hands together like he’s up to no good. He bites his bottom lip before he asks. “Is Even a good kisser?”

Is it hot in here? Isak moves to run a hand through his curls, pushing them back off his forehead—and yeah, they’re a little sticky with nervous sweat. He looks at Even with a smile, because Isak’s already heard this confession from Even on the dancefloor at Lea’s wedding reception. So he doesn’t feel as nervous to return the compliment. “Yeah,” he grins, hand still resting on the top of his head while he turns towards Even—whose hand slips deliciously closer inside his thigh. “He is.”

The boys do a simultaneous low whistle, which soon turns into giggles with their growing smiles.

“And Even,” Elias cocks his head playfully over to Even—batting his lashes—no need to repeat the question.

“Yes,” Even admits without hesitation, letting Isak’s arm fall from the top of his head to around his shoulders. “He is. Very much so.”

Another low whistle from the boys, and Isak could _kill_ Mikael for this, but he starts chanting, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

And the rest of the boys join in.

And Isak and Even are left staring at each other on the couch with big, sickly gooey smiles—Isak’s arms around his shoulders and Even’s hand on his thigh. They probably look like they’ve been ready for this the whole video.

Even raises his eyebrows. A challenge.

And, well, Isak’s never been one to shy away from a challenge.

So they lean in simultaneously, Even slipping his knee under Isak’s to practically bring him onto his lap. Isak’s arm behind Even’s shoulder finds it’s way to the back of Even’s neck, tangled in his hair—his other reaching around to cup the side of his face. And the hand that was on Isak’s thigh reaches around to his hip, pushing up slightly to bring Isak all the way on Even’s lap.

Oh, it’s so desperate. This kiss. The kind that has tense faces at first, which soon relax as they let out their held breaths. Like every second their lips are together might be the last. They’re on camera, but who cares—Isak slides his lips against Even’s to ask for more. Their mouths opening the best they can through smiles to tease each other. To dance their tongues nervously together only for a moment before someone pulls away to bite at a lip. It’s not supposed to be like this—this kiss is supposed to be short and sweet and _maybe, just maybe_ a little bit of a show. But it’s obviously filled with repression and lack of control that’s exploding into satisfied cravings. Every ounce of their aura oozing with wants and needs and hands grabbing for literally anything the other is willing to give. And Isak would be crazy to think both of their brains weren’t singing _yes. Finally._

Because that’s sure what it feels like. That’s certainly all _Isak_ can think as white consumes him entirely from head to toe—his whole body warm and delicate like the white-hot sand of a beach. Fiery and blinding and painful on bare skin. Only he does not want to leave. He does _not_ want to leave this time—is hanging on to Even like he’s begging him to not let him slip back into that cold darkness he is so tired of living in. So he holds onto this kiss. Fists his hand in Even’s hair and pulls a little too hard. Puts all his weight on Even’s lap. Tries his best to say _this could be real_ with every turn of the head so their lips can meet again.

“We’re going to have to fucking edit this,” Yousef laughs. “We’re going on thirty seconds,” he stage whispers, probably to Elias.

Well, that sure brings Isak back to reality—popping off of Even and sliding off his lap in absolute, utterly embarrassed horror. Even’s skin is flushed and adorably patchy. His lips are red and shiny and swollen—he’s torturing Isak by keeping them slightly parted. His hair is ruffled from Isak grabbing at it. And, most importantly, his eyes are sparkling.

“Should we take five?” Isak doesn’t know who says it. It’s background noise, really.

“Yeah,” another voice says. Maybe Elias. Maybe Yousef. Again, who knows. All Isak can see is bright bright blue and scorching, blinding white. “Let’s take five.”

The boys get up from the couch, and Isak and Even stay rooted to the spot with eyes locked on the floor as they catch their breath.

The air between them hangs heavy with two conflicting thoughts. One is to apologize profusely. The other is to do it again.

Which, if Isak is being frank, is all he can think about. To slide back into Even’s lap—this time maybe with both his legs around him. All his weight on him as everything sinks heavy while they kiss until they can’t breathe. Until their lips are pink and swollen and their eyes are wild and dilated and they don’t surface until confessions seep out of them—between every tilt of the head as they gasp for air—the only time free to utter a word or two. Maybe three. And those words sound a lot like _this_ and _is_ and _real._

And so Isak finally looks at Even. He has a hand on the back of his neck, right under his hair that looks totally ruined. (Isak might just be a little proud of that.) His chest is rising and falling deeply with breaths he’s trying to control through his nose. And his eyes are closed. They’re _closed_ like he’s trying to reel himself in after Isak’s wound him out. Which really isn’t what Isak wants him to do, because Isak wants to take all his long limbs and splay them. To open him up to that admission he knows lies within them both—to get Even to say it with words because Isak can only interpret so much from a kiss.

Even opens his eyes, and again, ocean blue meets forest green. “Sorry.”

The word hurts. Isak won’t lie. But Even heals him again right away—this time with a gesture.

“I think we’re going to finish up tomorrow.” Isak can hear the start of the sentence before he can see who it’s coming from. But then Elias rounds the corner of the doorway, throwing a thumb over his shoulder to the boys on his tail at the last word. He pulls out his phone, as if to check the details. “I think we’re going to head to a pregame before the party. Even?” He looks up, gesturing to him. “Do you want to come? Isak, you’re more than welcome, too.”

“That’s okay,” Even smiles, somehow 100% composed again while Isak is still a red-hot flash of an absolute mess. “I think I’m just going to stay home,” he finishes.

Elias raises his hands in defense, as if to say _suit yourself._ He cocks his head towards Isak. “Isak?”

Even leans into him, turning his head to face him as he waits for an answer. Thighs flush together and warm breath on Isak’s neck. How the fuck can he leave?

“Thanks,” Isak trails. “But I’m okay.”

Isak waits until the door closes before standing up to excuse himself. Halfway so he doesn’t have to awkwardly exit the building with the boys and halfway so he can _calm the fuck down. Jesus._

“Do you have plans?”

When Isak looks back at Even, still sitting on the couch, he’s in no better shape—he looks nervous, actually, which is not the Even Isak sees almost everywhere else. In front of his mom. In front of the boys. Pretending—or, maybe not pretending. Isak’s not so sure anymore. His eyes are wide and watery. Hopeful, even. But not with tears—probably just from being shut for so long as the seconds slipped away from them in that kiss.

Let’s backpedal. _That kiss._ It was prompted, sure. But it wasn’t fake. Wasn’t choreographed or planned or promised. It wasn’t _Isak and Even—soon to be newlyweds_ kissing. It was just Isak and Even. Kissing.

Isak checks his phone because starting about right now for the next hour or so, he’s waiting for a very important message. Which is tearing him apart honestly, because if he’s reading this right, Even’s voice carries the tone of an invitation. He puts a hand on the back of his neck and rubs nervously, darting his eyes until they land right into Even’s. “I guess I don’t,” he realizes out loud, a chuckle on the last word. He’s stopped moving, hoping he can backtrack his last few steps with Even’s next sentence.

“You can stay if you want. I was just going to watch a movie maybe and fall asleep.”

It sounds so nonchalant. So effortless. There’s even a small shoulder shrug and a raised eyebrow to match—which looks goofy in the sexiest way (why is Isak so turned on by handsome dorks?) considering his sex-mussed hair and flushed skin and shiny lips. And Isak wonders if there’s a storm raging inside Even, too, and if he’s really just that good at keeping it under wraps.

But Isak can be cool, too. Or, at least he can try. And if there’s one time his wit and sass can help him, he’s glad it’s now. “Only if you have snacks, obviously,” he smiles. He hopes it’s flirty and spiked with charm.

Even breaks out into a wide smile, as if he can’t believe it. He shakes his head down and ruffles his hair—making it even worse. “You think I wouldn’t have snacks?” He asks, mock offended as he jabs a finger into his own chest.

“And only if I can pick the movie,” Isak interrupts, crossing his arms now. The smile on his face is probably dangerously close to giving it all away.

Even pretends to stab himself in the heart, sinking back into the couch dramatically. “You’re lucky I only have good movies,” he warns, bending over to stand back up. Just a few centimeters taller than Isak, although his hair—sticking up in every direction—gives him a few more. They stand there for probably only a second, the urge to sink right back into the couch all over each other practically oppressive, but Even waves him into the living room. “There’s a ton in the ottoman,” he kneels beside it when they enter, lifting the cushioned lid to reveal a hodge-podge collection of films, DVDs, and VHSs. Movies that look like they were released yesterday and movies that look like they were created alongside the fist camera. He fishes in the couch cushions for the remote before handing it to Isak. “Or you can go through my Netflix queue. Pick anything you want, honestly,” he adds. “I’m on snack duty.” He fucking _winks._ Or, tries to—before getting up and heading into the kitchen.

Isak doesn’t know if he has the brain capacity to pick a movie. To even read the titles. He already knows his stomach is tied in far too tight a knot to even think about _snacks,_ for god’s sake.

Because he knows they’re about to get fucking cozy. It’ll start with that awkward tension that Isak’s grown to like. With maybe an arm around the back of Isak’s shoulders resting on the top of the couch. And like magnets—because that’s what they are—they’ll drift right into each other, and Isak wouldn’t mind if the night ended just like that.

Even comes back with popcorn and beer—what a fucking hero. He raises his eyebrows unimpressed at Isak, who is still right where he left him. The same two movies in his hands. “Did you pick something?” he asks over a handful of popcorn he shoves into his mouth, plopping on the couch behind Isak.

Isak holds up the movie—shit, he should probably read the title— _Atonement_ —in victory, walking over to the DVD player and inserting it as Even grabs the remote and clicks through the settings.

“I’ve seen this probably a gazillion times,” Even smiles. “I could get up and recite it for you if that would be more entertaining.” He’s sprawled out so comfortably. One leg stretched out on the ottoman and the other bent and bouncing in anticipation—probably for Isak to sit. He’s got one arm draped over the back of the couch and another picking through a bowl of popcorn on his lap. And yeah. Isak can’t wait to sink into all of that.

“Don’t tempt me,” Isak teases, sitting right in the spot next to Even because at this point it’s more than an invitation.

Even reaches over to the side table where he’s set the beer and grabs one to hand to him. “Skål,” he smiles, clinking his own with Isak’s before they both take a sip.

There is admittedly too many things going on right now—too many objects. Isak’s never been jealous of a bowl of popcorn before, but here he is, wishing he could trade places with it.

The day turning to night outside casts a grey shadow on everything through the window—the sun hidden behind clouds as it sinks lower in the sky and dragging them longer with every minute.

Maybe these shadows, slowly hiding things, make Isak more confident. Maybe it’s the beer. But everything is starting to seem like deja vu when Even’s arm on the top of the couch slides behind Isak’s back until it’s sitting comfortably at his hip. Isak’s head is leaning back to Even’s shoulder with a nervous smile. The movie’s been playing for a few minutes now, but Isak’s not paying attention. He’s debated on whether or not he should turn his head to rest his cheek on Even’s shoulder and look him in the eye. Maybe challenge him. Maybe brush their noses together and bring back every flash of white until it stays inside Isak’s heart forever.

Things are happening achingly slow. But right now this is enough.

Isak tips his head up, and Even’s grip tightens on him. When their eyes meet, it’s anxious and smiley and full of _is this okay?_ There’s nervousness dancing about them, which is something that’s never been there before, and it shrouds their faces and paints their expressions in that dopey, lovesick kind of way. Different than the looks they’ve shared under false pretenses, but when Isak nods his head to indicate _yes, this is more than okay,_ it soon melts into that. Sparkling eyes that hold promises and passion and—

 _Love._ Love sounds like the right word to Isak.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he awkwardly shifts into Even to stretch his hip out and fish it from his pocket.

> **MAMMA:**  
>  Haven’t heard from you in a few days.  
>  How are things? How’s Even?

“Yeah, Isak,” Even all but whispers in his ear—sending a shiver down his spine. “How am I?” He pinches Isak’s side playfully, causing Isak to snort and turn into him more—a leg bent at the knee hooked under Even’s.

Fuck, wouldn’t Isak like to know.

He’ll answer her later, but before he’s able to lock his phone back to a black screen, a Grindr notification juts down from the top. And _fuck,_ his heart clenches in the worst possible way. He can practically feel Even’s clench, too—his whole body tightening violently quick, and Isak can just _tell_ his eyes have glanced at the message over Isak’s shoulder. The logo on the left of the notification—which in itself is just as bad—unmistakable.

> **FrankTheTank:**  
>  I’m ready for round 2 whenever you are  
>  Want to switch things up this time?  
>  Wouldn’t mind seeing you bent over

He flips his phone over, face down on his knee. Even’s breath is unmistakably hitched, and, well, so is Isak’s. As if exhaling will break them apart.

“I have to go,” Isak whispers, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible.

Even’s embrace around him—and Isak realizes now that’s exactly what it is—loosens, and suddenly everything is cold and dark. He’s so good at living in the moment, Isak cherished every inch of movement that happened in the last few minutes. Every tightening of Even’s arm. Every nudge of their legs. Every turn towards each other. All of these collective progressions that lead them here—Isak basically on Even’s lap with arms around each other—cherished for only a second before Isak realized what’s happening. But now it’s gone, and Even is letting him leave as he tries his best to hide his disappointment.

And it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why.

“Look,” Isak breathes, flipping his phone back over and unlocking it. He swipes to the second page of his home screen, where his Grindr app lies buried in a folder called _Miscellaneous._ He doesn’t open it. Instead, he taps his thumb to it and holds—the little square with the Grindr logo alongside the others vibrating and dancing animatedly when his thumb rests for more than a second. And when the little “x” appears in the corner, Isak taps it—deleting the app for good. “It’s not what you think,” he turns to Even, who looks equal parts hurt and confused. “I just need to take care of something real quick.”

Even doesn’t say anything.

And Isak doesn’t know how to make this right, but he has to go. He _has_ to. And he’ll come right back if Even lets him. So if this is it, if this is all he’ll ever have of Even due to yet another misunderstanding, Isak leans in to make it as right as he can.

It’s just a quick kiss. But Isak holds Even’s face like it might as well be the most passionate one he’s ever shared. Eyes painfully closed with a furrowed brow that won’t let him relax into it. But he tries to tell Even everything with this kiss. How he’s not pretending, and how he knows Even isn’t either. “I just need to take care of something real quick,” he repeats, stroking Even’s cheek with his thumb as they break away—faces still close when he says it. Even’s eyes don’t open for a moment, and Isak swears he tries to chase his lips when they part.

Isak deserves this, really. Or, at least he tells himself he does. He can’t make things right with Eskild and Elias. He’s been too much of a coward to make things right (or even happen, for that matter) with him and Even—so the least he can do is make things right with Magnus and Julian.

Luckily, Julian doesn’t live too far. Isak practically runs there; breath visible in the freezing air as the sun sits threateningly low in the sky.

When he enters the apartment around the block and knocks on the door, Julian answers in nothing but a towel.

“Thought maybe you’d at least answer me before you came over,” he jokes. His eyes wide and dilated with a flick of his tongue over his teeth as he gives Isak a once over. And Isak’s flushed cheeks and out of breath pants sink in, finally. “Or, could you not wait?” His eyebrows are rising high on his forehead and Isak really wants nothing more than to punch him in the face.

He has to play it cool, though. At least for a second.

“Guess so,” he says through gritted teeth.

Julian waves him in, dropping his towel on the floor once the door shuts behind them. He looks over his shoulder at Isak, giving him a wink before starting down the hallway.

Isak follows him to his room.

He really doesn’t want to fight with a naked Julian, but it looks like that’s what’s about to happen. At least, that’s what’s _supposed_ to happen. But Julian is eager—when he turns around to meet Isak, who's just stepped in the threshold of his room, he’s already moving his hands over Isak’s shoulders to remove his jacket and planting his lips on Isak’s neck.

If this had nothing to do with Magnus, Isak might have enjoyed it for one second. But this is the first time it really feels like cheating for him—because he’s hooked up with people while Even and him pretended to do whatever the fuck they were doing (presumably trying to get their shit together), but this time, with someone else’s lips on him, it feels wrong.

Isak backs away with eyes closed achingly. “Stay away from Magnus,” he grunts. Red hot anger is filling him from head to toe at Julian’s confusion.

Which then softens into perplexity. And guilt. And remorse. Isak might actually feel bad for Julian if he wasn’t such a fuckboy. “Magnus is—”

“Magnus is my best friend,” Isak finishes the sentence for him, wishing he would put some goddamn clothes on. “So stay. Away.”

“Listen—”

“I didn’t come here to listen!” Isak almost yells, throwing his arms out and craning his neck forward to try and take up as much space as possible. “I came here to tell you to leave him alone, okay? I felt sick to my stomach after I found out he was seeing you. But you know what? I’m kind of glad it happened, because at least now Magnus gets to know the truth. And won’t be strung along by an… an asshole like _you.”_

Isak keeps his arms open. His breathing is still labored, partly from the running and partly from the yelling. He’s wishing Julian would fucking say something. Or put some clothes on. For the love of god Julian, please put some clothes on.

“I like Magnus—”

“Bullshit.” He almost laughs it out, an eye roll accompanying his relaxing shoulders because he just can’t believe this guy. Isak’s has no problem cutting Julian off. The bastard deserves it.

“I’m serious,” Julian takes a step forward, a warning hand out in front of him that conveys he’s not trying to harm. “I don’t do… I don’t do dates and shit. So.”

“So ‘not doing dates and shit,’” Isak mocks, annoyed, “is an excuse for you to… like, string him along? And cheat on him left and right?” The words are fumbly coming from Isak’s mouth, the anger boiling as he realizes Magnus probably feels a lot like Isak in this situation. So the words are partly his own. Partly asking this one fuckboy on behalf of all fuckboys everywhere why guys like Magnus and Isak are just hookup material. “Treating Magnus like a human being gives you enough justification to… to turn around and treat him like garbage behind his back?”

“Well,” Julian starts, a rebuttal obviously rehearsed in his head while Isak struggled for the words. “If it makes you feel any fucking better, I haven’t heard from him all week.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “Yeah,” he mouths obviously, “because I fucking told him what happened!”

The mood shifts as the yelling stops. Isak’s anger dissipating into confusion in a frustrating way when Julian slumps back on his bed—head in his hands. It would be pathetic, but Isak’s just glad his dick isn’t hanging out anymore.

Alright, now it’s pathetic. Julian let’s out a dramatically miserable sigh. “I really did like him,” he mumbles.

Which is a shame, really. Because Magnus deserves to have someone like him. Someone nice and kind who does things for him—the way Julian did—but without… you know. The cheating. Isak resists the urge to spit on his feet at the thought—his stomach curdling when he remembers he’s one of the (many? You know what, he doesn’t want to know) guys Julian cheated on Magnus with.

This went semi-accordingly to plan (He definitely imagined Julian clothed when he told him off), so Isak feels confident turning on his heel and walking out the door. With one last look over his shoulder, Julian still grieving and naked on the bed with his head down, Isak licks his bottom lip threateningly. “Stay away from Magnus.”

 

———

 

When Isak leaves Julian’s apartment building, he slumps against the door with his head back—eyes fluttering closed for a second as he reminds himself to take a deep breath.

He doesn’t do that often. Sometimes, when anger boils up in him, he lashes out—but nothing ever this calculated. Nothing that ever offends him personally. So he needs a moment to recover. And, well, to think. Specifically about how to get back into Even’s apartment.

He could text him. Or just show up. For some reason, the anxiety of waiting for a reaction on the walk back to Even’s seems less daunting than waiting for a text back. (And—okay—a little more romantic.) So Isak wills himself off the door—full weight on his legs as he begins walking back to Even’s.

And, the most heartbreaking moment of this whole night—more than that desperate kiss for the Hei Briskey video; more than seeing Julian being torn apart by a melancholy Magnus—is when Isak knocks on Even’s door, Even opens it and kisses him.

As if it were an answer to the questioning kiss Isak gave him before he left. But that seems to be the pattern, Isak thinks. Every time Isak’s asked, Even’s always answered.

This kiss shouldn’t be heartbreaking at all. It should be loud and bright with flashes of white (which certainly are there), but it’s also desperate and hopeless in a way Isak recognizes all too well. Because this kiss, with Even’s hands holding Isak’s face like it might break if he holds on too tight, is absolutely seeping with that feeling of futile love he chases every day.

Because in reality, Even doesn’t know where Isak was. Doesn’t know what Isak just did. Doesn’t know what _actually_ happened. His last picture of Isak was him looking at a booty call on Grindr and walking out the door.

But Isak came back. And that’s all that matters to Even.

If Isak knew—if he _knew_ Even was just as desperate for love. Just as curious why it never seemed to come his way. Why it always seemed to present itself as empty sexual conquests or in flashes of white that were all just for show—then maybe he would have done something about it sooner. But he didn’t know. Not until now, at least, when Isak feels it bleeding from this kiss.

And like all of these kisses they’ve shared with no witness, it’s not long. No longer than a peck, yet they have somehow reached the top of _Isak’s favorite kisses with Even_ list. And that’s exactly why—because they’re just Isak and Even.

They’re still awkward when no cover of falsehood is shielding them. When they realize how truly alone they are, and what it means to be truly alone and doing what they’re doing. Isak’s heart stills with warmness when he sees the movie paused right where they left it, although admittedly, he can’t really remember what’s going on anyway.

Even takes Isak’s hand. It’s warm and soft and maybe a little sweaty, but Isak doesn’t mind. In fact, it’s kind of cute. And he doesn’t let go—not even when they sit back together again on the couch—this time not taking their time to get comfy. Instead, Even’s arm immediately finds a place around Isak’s waist, slinking under his shirt to make Isak’s skin prickle all over.

Isak brings a leg up over Even’s, so their thighs rest together comfortably as they stretch them out on the ottoman. It’s the good kind of tension that’s running through Isak’s body right now—the kind that feels like it will be resolved. He shifts his hips to get a little closer, back to almost in Even’s lap right where they left off. This time, he slips his own arm behind Even with his other crossing his front to hold him. And he wastes no time beating around the bush, because he’s had enough teasing for a lifetime. His hand finds the skin of Even’s side under his shirt, and Isak revels in how soft it is. How soft all of this is. And how it feels like nothing he’s ever had.

Because really—this is nothing he’s ever had.

He’s never sat on a couch before with a cute boy he has a crush on—who he might even love—feeling like a fucking teenager as he pays 0% attention to the movie and 100% to Even. His breathing. His movements. His everything. And finally, _finally_ just them. Just _for_ them.

Isak’s eyelids start to feel heavy, and he leans his head back with a cute turn to rest his cheek on Even’s shoulder with a look he knows is probably halfway drunk with happiness. It becomes full on intoxicated when Even turns to meet his gaze, his expression tenfold with the same knowing look. And Isak leans up, then—mouth threatening to break in a smile—so his lips are almost touching Even’s. Like he’s asking. Or teasing. Or whatever. It doesn’t really matter now—he knows Even will answer.

And he does. With a soft kiss Isak doesn’t know if they’ve ever shared pressed this closely. Lips smushing together probably disgustingly sweet to an outsider. Hands planted firmly on the warm skin under their clothes in a _yes, I want you_ way, but also in a way that keeps Isak firmly planted on the ground while allowing his brain to feel lightheaded and dance with the stars he sees behind Even’s eyes.

Isak’s pupils are fluttering under his eyelids with sleepiness. And this is it, right here, he thinks. This is true happiness. This is the other side of things he’s been missing. This is what it’s like to have someone want him for something more than the night.

For the first time ever, he feels wanted just for being Isak.

Their eyes open before their lips break away, which causes them both to smile. If Isak thought he was a gooey mess then… well. His eyes are probably singing love songs now, but he’s too far gone to care if Even notices. In fact, let him notice. Why not—Isak feels like singing them.

He brushes his nose against Even’s, then buries it somewhere deep in his neck as he holds onto him—letting the blue glow of the movie bathe them in soft light as he closes his eyes. Just to rest, of course.

 

———

 

Or not.

Isak’s eyes peek open when he transfers from asleep to awake. The TV is still on, but muted—the title screen to the movie on loop. And it’s still dark outside, indicating the hour is probably stuck somewhere between late night and early morning.

He’s on his back—head on a throw pillow up by the armrest of the couch, which is, thank god, pretty large—large enough for him to at least stretch his legs out comfortably with Even lying completely on top of him. Their feet level so Even’s head is above Isak’s, his nose buried in Isak’s curls and Isak’s into Even’s neck. Their legs are tangled together, denim on denim, and although Isak’s arms are painfully asleep, he doesn’t dare move them, because they’re wrapped around Even.

Isak could get up and go—wake Even up and let him sleep in an actual bed—but he’s feeling selfish. Instead, he brings an arm up to stroke through Even’s hair and turns his face into his neck, letting out a content breath which causes Even to hum in smiley satisfaction, his own sleep probably dulled, but not at 100%. Isak places a gentle kiss to the thin skin of Even’s throat, letting his mouth rest there and nuzzling his nose into the warmth when he pulls away.

When Isak closes his eyes again—face comfortably squished against Even’s neck, which is rising and falling slowly with sleepy breaths and swallows—everything is a warm, fuzzy grey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk to me on [tumblr,](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/) follow the [playlsit](https://open.spotify.com/user/12168089246/playlist/0oz7ebwFRbSKcETZz5Ga75) I made for this fic, or [read this other thing I wrote!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12236523)
> 
> Your comments always make me smile ear to ear :)


	5. Chapter 5

“I’m uncomfortable.”

Yeah, Isak too, but he wouldn’t get up right now for a million dollars. The weight of Even still on top of him—long limbs cramped and fuzzy with sleep under each other and folded into the couch cushions—is an absolutely bearable one, in Isak’s opinion. Minus the actual _comfort_ part, Isak’s never been comfier in his life.

His face is still buried in Even’s neck when he hears the low, sleepy voice mumble into his hair. If he’s not mistaken, a small kiss is placed to his curls after the fact that makes the dark living room a few shades brighter. Isak just snuggles in closer and pretends not to hear him. He makes a sound that could be interpreted as anything, really, and his answer is just a few soft kisses to Even’s neck—a response to the one Even just placed on his temple.

Isak hears Even let out a sleepy laugh, craning his neck back an inch or two that Isak thinks is a subtle affirmation he likes it. And so Isak keeps going—getting into it and rolling over to rest on his arm. They shift positions a bit, so Even is no longer fully on top of him and they’re on their sides instead. He lets Even melt into the couch—kissing all the way from his jaw to his collarbone and back again with sleepy smiles. When Even makes a little sound, something high in his throat he’s trying to suppress, Isak _knows_ he likes it.

The darkness is making him brave. He can’t really see Even—his eyes. His face. Can only feel him all over and hear every little sound he makes. Which is probably a good thing, because if Isak could see him, it might be too much. Even is something Isak needs to ease into. Even is something that can’t be rushed. Even is turning into something real. And Isak doesn’t want to fuck it up.

So, Even all in one go might send Isak over the edge.

“Isak,” Even breathes—still low and full of sleep. Isak can feel his throat move against his lips when he says his name, and it sounds like everything all of his wet dreams were ever made of. It causes him to shift his hips back an inch or two, so they’re not pressed against Even’s thigh in fear Even might feel him get turned on by it. “I’m uncomfortable,” he repeats.

Isak assumes he means on this couch, be he pops off anyway, scooting back.

Even reaches for him, though—takes the hand which is currently resting on Isak’s cheek and threads it through his belt loops, the other following suit as he drags Isak back in by the hips to press them together. Isak’s relieved and ten times more turned on when he feels he’s had the same effect on Even, who then finds his lips with his own in the dark. It’s still full of sleep, but since his senses are dulled by the night, Isak opens his mouth anyway to deepen it.

After about a minute, too afraid to move a muscle of their lower bodies to even hint at asking for more, Even starts to sit up.

Isak’s unsure if he’s about to follow Even to his room, or if Even is about to follow him to the front door. So he doesn’t move—he waits for Even to.

He feels Even dig around on the couch, looking for something. “What time is it?” He finally asks, placing a hand on Isak’s thigh.

Isak squirms to straighten his legs and fish his phone from his pocket. The screen blinds him for a moment before he finds the time and locks it again. “1:11,” he mumbles.

Even leans back down and places an unexpected kiss to the corner of Isak’s mouth, finding his lips after a clumsy laugh, which must have been his original destination. It makes Isak’s head swim in a pool of rushing white, like the whitecaps of a roaring stream. Loud when it hits—abrupt when it’s over. “You can stay.” Even says right over the kiss.

Isak nods probably a little too soon, his eagerness only confirmed by his cheeks tightening and rising under Even’s hands in a surprised smile—one that grows so wide he can’t even keep his lips soft enough to kiss anymore.

So Isak follows Even down the hall, hand in hand as they let their eyes get adjusted to the dark. He wishes he could see Even’s room better, but there’s not much to make of it as Even lets go of his hand and starts blindly taking his pants off.

When Isak continues to stand there nervously, he can feel Even freeze as he realizes he might be misinterpreting things. They’re going to share this bed, right? That’s the intention here? That’s _Isak’s_ intention—his body language just isn’t conveying that very well. “I just don’t want to sleep in my jeans,” Even announces, struggling with a small hop to free his last foot from the leg of them.

Isak shrugs his shoulders and removes his own, because Even has a point. In another move of bravery, Isak takes a step forward and sits on the bed first, reaching his hands out to pull a smiling Even down with him. Or, on him.

“This is comfier?” Isak jokes, mocking that they’re currently in the same position as before.

Even rolls over on his side, guiding Isak along with him and hooking a leg over his hip. “Much,” he whispers, scooting back up to rest his head on top of Isak’s after placing a quick kiss there. He quietly tips his chin up to ask for more neck kisses.

Which, of course, Isak has no problem indulging in all the same.

“Wait,” Even stops him with a hand on Isak’s cheek. He runs it down the length of his neck, scratching lightly at the same spot he did in the car on the way to the cabin. Almost as if to check and see if something new is there. “Where did you go last night?”

Isak’s words get caught. “I wasn’t—” he stammers. “I only—” but he can’t say it. “I didn’t—” he finishes. There’s a long pause, and the only thing Isak can think to say is the name of the only person who’s taken refuge in his mind since he’d met him. “Even.” It’s a plea.

Even’s voice is slow and full of understanding, as if the only thing left to say is to echo it back. “Isak.”

Yet Isak’s just full of half-sentences. He can’t stop them. He wants to spill it. Everything. All of it. And he’s _trying_ —it’s not his fault Even leaves him breathless. “There’s only...”

Actions do speak louder than words, even when words are desperately what they need right now. But Isak doesn’t have them, so he expresses his love the only way he knows how to in the moment. By leaning in and kissing Even bravely, hoping all of the things he wants to say somehow seep through.

Isak thinks that maybe this darkness—this middle of the night spell they’re under—is making Even braver, too. How five senses being reduced to about four makes everything a little easier to take in, because now there’s room to think.

Which may or may not be a good thing, depending on what Isak’s thinking about. But he’s too afraid to ask questions right now. He’d rather just bask in all of these whitecaps that seem to knock him over than potentially ruin this cozy glow around them.

And then it just gets hard to think at all when Isak remembers they’re both in their boxers, exchanging kisses on Even’s bed.

And soon their lips are parted wide open against each other with Isak’s hands wrecking Even’s hair in the way he’s grown to like it. Even’s hands lie nervously on the bare skin of Isak’s waist. Like most of their kisses, it’s desperate. Full of not knowing what this is and if it’ll ever happen again. It’s also full of something Isak’s never quite had with Even before—vulnerability.

It’s a lot harder to hide how turned on he is without the pressure of his jeans helping him, but they’re making out in Even’s bed in their underwear, so what does Isak think Even expects? To prove a point or maybe get some relief, Isak scoots closer so that Even’s leg around him is flush all the way—their bodies touching at every angle, and surprise—Even’s turned on too. When Isak moves, a little gasp escapes Even that may or may not make Isak twitch embarrassingly.

He rolls his hips. It elicits another gasp from Even, and Isak smirks through the kiss a little smugly.

His smugness backfires on him, though, when Even pulls the same move that brings a sound ten times more embarrassing and desperate from Isak. It’s caught somewhere high in his throat, releasing with a stutter on the better half of loud.

He’d be embarrassed if Even hadn’t done it again.

Even’s moved his lips away and down to Isak’s neck now, and apparently this has become the Isak show. He’s just laying there, really—letting Even’s hands squeeze him gently in a way he didn’t know he liked. Letting Even kiss his neck with a few little bites in between kisses that are just as hot as they are sweet. Letting Even continue to roll his hips, Isak mimicking the motion in a lazy way that only makes him feel more on fire.

Isak’s not usually like this. Isak usually likes to be in control—to say when and where and use his hands to bend someone over.

But he could get used to this. He’s never had someone so intent on making him _feel good._

In fact, if this happens for much longer, Isak won’t last at all.

Before Even’s name can leave Isak’s lips in a near beg, he hears his own name.

“Isak.” Again, he feels like he’s having a wet dream. Even practically moans it into his neck, his lips pressed there but not moving in stunned ecstasy. And Isak realizes Even is yet again on the same page—only a few more rocks of their hips away from letting go.

Isak makes a sound that’s half a moan and half a giggle. He hopes it sounds hot. “Even,” he returns the favor, almost asking rather than repeating. “Don’t stop.”

“If I don’t—”

Isak nudges Even’s face out of his neck with his shoulder to kiss him on the mouth. This stills Even, his whole body weak and relaxed as he gives in. So Isak picks it back up, grinding into him. “I want you to.”

Even makes a sound. A really fucking hot sound that Isak closes his eyes at in a nervous reaction. One more of those and Isak will be done for.

“Seeing you will make me,” Isak whispers over one more kiss—their hips lazy but constant with Even’s leg still hooked around Isak’s side.

“Okay,” Even agrees. “Just one more minute—” but his head jerks up when he hears the front door open and close—the boys’ voices loud and maybe a little tipsy as they enter the apartment, home from their party. 

They both freeze, and try their best to look at each other through the dark—mere seconds away from an orgasm.

Isak starts to move again, a soft and tender kiss over Even’s lips made dirty by his words. “Can you be quiet?”

Even nods a little pathetically into it, biting down on Isak’s lip when Isak takes the liberty to roll on top of Even and grind down on him. Isak lets him—although it’s a little too hard—so he’ll be quiet.

Even eagerly thrusts up, his breathing loud and choppy as he tries to not let anything louder than that break free. Isak’s having the same problem, although he’s much better at hiding it. It doesn’t help that he knows in a few more thrusts, he’ll be gone.

He needs to say it. He needs to let Even’s name free from his mouth in one last desperate attempt to let him know he’s the only thing on his mind. So he does.

Isak leans down to Even’s ear, placing a soft kiss to the part of his neck where they meet. “Even.” It’s high and whiny because if he wants it to be quiet there’s no other way.

And it lasts maybe about thirty more seconds—cotton on cotton as their hips take turns and their hands roam and a few more quiet names slips from their tongues.

Even let’s out an, “I’m—” and Isak isn’t far behind. Maybe only a second, really.

And then he feels it all over. The white. In a paralyzing kind of way he’s never felt before. It curls his toes and freezes his limbs and blanks his mind in a way that hits hard when it’s over. They’re both a little sweaty and panting as they cling to each other in messy boxers.

They fucking dry humped in Even’s bed and Isak’s never had a better orgasm.

He would wonder why that is, but he already knows. Because it’s _Even._ And Isak _likes_ him. Maybe even loves him.

Isak doesn’t know what this means—but whatever it is, it’s undeniably a turning point.

And, whatever they’re doing, it’s just for them. Just for Isak and Even. No one to fool, no one to please. (Except for themselves.) So maybe this makes it a little easier. Because no one has to know, which might be the best thing for them right now considering they don’t even know themselves. All of these kisses, all of these movements, all of this love has been said to the pinnacle of physical expression—both of them unfurling and releasing and coming undone with each other as they gasp the other’s names through sloppy kisses—it’s just the _words _that need to be said.__

__One step at a time, though, even if they are doing things backwards._ _

__They’ve still got a few heavy breaths to release before they calm down. Isak’s eyes have adjusted to the dark well enough by now to faintly see the blue of Even’s. And he’s glad he can, because he didn’t know he needed it so much. He can also make out the glow of Even’s smile, which really can probably be seen in pitch black anyhow, since it’s so fucking bright it strikes something warm and white in Isak’s heart. He’s pushing Isak’s curls off his forehead in soft strokes, like he’s petting him. And Isak let’s him, of course, too shy to admit this is his favorite part of it all._ _

__Even gets up after a moment to grab two fresh pairs of boxers from his dresser, throwing a pair at Isak who quickly changes into them and follows suit by throwing his dirty ones in the corner alongside Even’s._ _

__When Even crawls back into bed, he slinks his arms up through Isak’s shirt and holds him close, too afraid to say anything._ _

__Which has kind of been the theme of this whole night. Lots of looks. Lots of actions. Lots of kisses and touches and vague sounds that don’t really mean much. And not a lot of words._ _

__But they’ll get to those. Maybe not tonight, but Isak knows they’ll get to those. For now, Isak lets Even hold him. He holds him back, too. They rest their foreheads against each other, and Isak can’t help but let out a low giggle. Which, of course, causes Even to let one out too._ _

___Isak and Even: future newlyweds_ are a lot different than just Isak and Even. But not in the important ways. In fact, they’re in the ways Isak prefers. They’re not as smooth. Not as collected. Not as well refined or well rehearsed. A lot more raw. A lot more real._ _

__Which is all Isak’s been searching for, really._ _

__

__———_ _

__

__When Isak’s eyelids flutter open to early orange sunlight through unfamiliar curtains, there’s a hand around his waist, legs tangled with his, and soft breathing on the back of his neck. And unlike all of the other times he’s woken up in a familiar bed, he remembers who’s beside him. _Even._ _ _

__He could almost cry it feels so nice. Foreign in the finest way._ _

__Even is already awake. “Good morning,” he hums—a small kiss on the back of Isak’s neck that makes him scrunch it up at the sensation. It tickles, and Even knows it does, so he does it again. When Isak giggles, he doesn’t stop._ _

__“Quit it!” Isak jokes, turning over to lay on his back with a sleepy smile. He’s unprepared to have his face so close to Even’s when he turns—his bright blue eyes and messy waves catching Isak off guard in a way that stops his breath for a moment. He’s even more unprepared to have Even lean over and place a sweet kiss to his lips. This time, his breath stops for more than a moment. His whole body is light and airy—this must be what cloud nine feels like._ _

__Never in his life has Isak been this delighted before noon._ _

__When they break away, Even runs a hand through Isak’s hair. “Are you hungry? Breakfast?”_ _

__Isak thinks for a moment. His insides are light and happy in a nervous way, and it’s hard to focus on food. But it’s been awhile since he’s eaten, so he nods._ _

__There’s rustling coming from the kitchen down the hallway. Maybe in the bathroom, too. The boys are awake—of course they are. Isak checks his phone—again, his home screen is filled with notifications. It’s almost 11:00._ _

__What’s worse—coming sleepy-eyed and bed-headed from Even’s room in his own clothes from yesterday, or in Even’s?_ _

__Even notices him freeze, then turns to Isak with a smirk. “...Breakfast in bed?” He suggests, dragging out the front of the sentence with a glance between the commotion behind the door and Isak._ _

__Isak smiles softly. Thankfully. “Sure,” he nods._ _

__So Even gets up—throwing on sweatpants before heading out the door—backtracking to kiss Isak on the forehead before he shuts it behind him gently._ _

__Isak stares at the door for a moment—his heart deciding on and off again if it wants to speed up or stop altogether. He opens his eye wide. Pinches himself. Just to make sure he is, in fact, awake right now._ _

__Which is when the memory of last night comes flooding back to him. Of Even’s lips and hands and _hips_ and—just— _all of him_ all at once in a way Isak wouldn’t mind repeating. And it was real. It was _real._ Yet Isak’s too afraid to step out of Even’s bedroom—terrified that when he does, things might not be real anymore. He feels safe in here—in Even’s room. The bed a throne. The walls a fortress. The curtains camouflage. The door a portal._ _

__He takes his phone back out, scanning through his messages while he waits for Even to return._ _

__

> ____
> 
> **ESKILD:**  
>  Pretty boy?  
>  You didn’t come home last night  
>  I was so lonelyyyyy  
>  Isak?  
>  Whenever you’re out getting frisky you come home at the crack of dawn

__  
__  
  
  


__Isak hesitates to think of an excuse, but his love-struck state of mind decides against it. If there’s anybody he can be honest with, it’s Eskild. He’ll spare him the details, though. At least for now._ _

__

> ____
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I decided to let him make me breakfast   
>  I’ll be home later  
>  Saturday plans?
> 
> **ESKILD:**  
>  I’m supposed to see Elias later
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  How’s that going?

__  
__  
  
  


__Isak sets his phone on his lap, crossing his legs with the duvet pulled over them. He stares at the door again where he can hear the boys laughing on the other side, wondering if Elias ever took his words to talk to Eskild to heart._ _

__

> ____
> 
> **ESKILD:**  
>  It’s on the upswing  
>  At least for now
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  So… no word on what’s wrong?
> 
> **ESKILD:**  
>  No, but I think I’ve put the pieces together  
>  He’s scared of what people will think  
>  He’s scared of being with me  
>  And he’s scared of himself

__  
__  
  
  


__Isak’s heart sinks at the messages—his limbs frozen with heaviness and his brain retreating back to a time in his life where things weren’t so different for him, either. When admitting to himself, the easiest step, was still the hardest part._ _

__

> ____
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  It’s a shitty feeling
> 
> **ESKILD:**  
>  Oh pretty boy  
>  Don’t remind me of you being all sad  
>  I might cry
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  I’m okay now  
>  You know that
> 
> **ESKILD:**  
>  Are you, though?  
>  I hope breakfast boy treated you nice last night  
>  You deserve love in your life
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  You do too, Eskild  
>    
> 

__  
__  
  
  


__Before Isak has time to see if Eskild responded, Even is backing up through the door with two plates in his hands piled with an array of toasts and cheeses and fruits. He hands them both to Isak, putting up one finger to indicate he’ll be back in a second, and then disappears again. When he returns, he’s carrying two mugs of steaming coffee._ _

__Even trades Isak a coffee for a plate, shuffling back under the covers and sitting cross-legged—like Isak—across from him._ _

__His smile is instant. “Thank you,” Isak beams, plucking a strawberry off his plate and reaching over to place it on Even’s lips. Even opens his mouth and takes a bite—red juice running down his chin that he wipes away with a clumsy laugh._ _

__And it’s gorgeous. Full yet genuine—and Isak can tell Even is happy to be right here, just like he is. If only Isak were brave enough to let everything slip, because right now all they need are the words. The glue that will hold everything together._ _

__“What?” Even laughs again. This time a little softer, and Isak realizes he’s staring. Probably intently with blown pupils and a parted mouth that’s relaxed and turned up with a smile. In love beyond belief._ _

__“Nothing,” Isak blushes, preoccupying himself with a sip of coffee._ _

__“Do I have something on my face?” Even presses, wiping his chin again to make sure all of the strawberry juice is gone._ _

__Isak can’t help but lean in, reaching a hand out to brush Even’s jaw with his fingers. Even preens into it a bit, biting the inside of his cheek to suppress a smile, which soon softens as Isak moves his thumb to softly drag it over his bottom lip. “Yeah,” Isak whispers. He wants to say it. He wants to say it so bad. Something sweet and genuine that he’s always holding back. Maybe it will be easier over a kiss, when their eyes are shut and awkward silence can’t follow._ _

__So he leans in. It’s careful and slow and simple. They’ve both still got breakfasts on their laps and coffees in their free hands. And right before their lips meet, Isak says it. “The most beautiful smile,” he whispers, which becomes even more beautiful over this kiss. Isak can’t see it, but he can feel it—Even’s cheeks rising and his lips thinning under him into a grin that’s becoming contagious._ _

__His heart is on fire. There’s something happening in his stomach—something he’s never felt before. Isak thinks it might be butterflies. Little white ones that tickle his insides in fluttery flashes of hope. Thousands of them._ _

__There’s a knock on the door that replaces them with a rock._ _

__Even turns to look behind him, then back to Isak. “Is it okay?” he mouths, just below a whisper._ _

__Isak thinks it is, because he needs to brave it at some point. But since he doesn’t know when he’ll be able to kiss Even again—the only thing he wants to do—he leans in quickly._ _

__Even’s smiling when he pulls away and sets his stuff down to crack the door open, where a surprised Elias stands when he spots Isak on the bed._ _

__Elias raises his eyebrows at Even—a bunch of words tangled in his open mouth like he doesn’t know which ones to start with. When he does speak, Isak reads his lips._ _

___“Did you tell him?”_ _ _

__Which causes the butterflies to return._ _

__Isak can’t tell with Even’s back to him, but if Elias’s nervously smug reaction has anything to say about it, Even just gave him an embarrassed death glare._ _

__“Hi, Isak,” Elias greets, looking over at him on the bed. He puts a hand on the back of his neck nervously, biting his cheek as he starts to form a question. “Even,” he turns back. “I was just going to ask if you wanted to call Isak and see if we could finish the video today, but—” he laughs, “I think we’re good.” He turns to leave._ _

__But Isak stops him. “Elias?”_ _

__Elias loops back in—pursed lips in a little smile as he looks from Even to Isak._ _

__“No one will care,” Isak confesses. It comes out with a stutter as he nervously eyes Even first, who looks taken aback. Isak tries to tell himself that speaking up in these situations makes up for all of the words he can’t seem to say to Even._ _

__The color in Elias’s face drains. His smile disappears and is replaced with something sour. Not in a way that sickens him, but in a way that frightens him._ _

__“No one will care,” Isak repeats. “Your parents won’t care. Sana won’t care. The boys...” he eyes Even again. “They won’t care.”_ _

__There’s silence for a moment as the three boys hold their breaths—the room full with thick tension Isak thinks would be difficult to walk through. It makes everything slow. But in this slowness, he can think._ _

__“There will be people,” Isak admits quietly, looking down. “Who care.” When he glances back up, Elias is listening. “But everyone who matters? They won’t care.”_ _

__With a nod, Elias turns out the door._ _

__

__———_ _

__

__“Change of plans!” Elias is packing up the camera and his laptop, the last one into the spare room of the apartment while the boys wait on the couch to finish the video._ _

__It’s a lot less awkward than Isak thought, although he was right about leaving the safety of Even’s room—because out here things are different. Calculated. Every move Even and Isak make are thought through, although the temptation to plant little kisses all along Even’s cheeks and jaw are unbearable._ _

__But one thing keeps Isak smiling, and one thing keeps him hanging on._ _

__The fact he knows Even is having a hard time, too, keeps him smiling. Every glance flickers down to Isak’s lips. His smiles tell stories. His hands, honestly, don’t leave Isak._ _

__Keeping him hanging on is this warm, fuzzy grey the atmosphere has draped around him, as if the black they slip into when they go back to whatever reality they live in is gone._ _

__The boys say a simultaneous _what?_ as Elias grabs the equipment and heads for the door._ _

__“We’re going to film at my parents’,” he asserts, waving a hand to motion the boys up and follow him through the door. “Uh, Even?” He stops Even by the arm. “Can you drive? I mean, there are too many of us for the car, but, you know, the equipment? I don’t want to take it on the tram.”_ _

__“Sure,” Even agrees, still cautious and curious about the sudden change of plans but polite nonetheless._ _

__“You can come too, Isak,” Elias offers with a little smile._ _

__They part ways at the landing to the apartment building—Mikael, Adam, Yousef, and Mutta heading for the tram stop while Isak, Even, and Elias head for Even’s car._ _

__“Sit in front,” Elias smiles, pointing to the passenger side for Isak as he slips in the back._ _

__Once buckled in, Even resumes his signature driving position, and, when they pull out, gives Isak’s curls a quick run-through with his fingers._ _

__“Even—” Elias leans up between the front seats once they’ve started down the main road. “Can we make a pit stop? Turn right.”_ _

__Which must mean something, because Even nods his head and turns semi-abruptly—no longer needing directions as he makes a few more turns like he knows where he’s going._ _

__It takes Isak all the way until they’re pulling up to his apartment building to realize they are, in fact, at his apartment._ _

__Elias sits in the backseat for a moment, his eyes fixed on the building. He’s chewing on his bottom lip anxiously, twitching his thumbs in his lap. After what seems like a little too long, he puts his hand on the car door. “I’ll be right back,” he mentions with a quick nod to himself, ducking out of the car and making his way to the apartment building—ringing the call box and being let in, presumably by Eskild, only a moment later._ _

__“You know he’s my roommate?” Isak turns to Even once they’re alone. “Eskild.”_ _

__Even chuckles. “I didn’t even know his name,” he admits, looking out the window. There’s a thought somewhere in him—Isak can see it on his face, but he doesn’t know what it is. “Eskild,” he repeats to himself with a smile. “Well, Elias is a very… private guy. I’m surprised he even came to me at all about… this,” he motions towards Isak’s building. “And I always thought it was just a coincidence.” He removes his arm over the passenger side headrest to playfully elbow Isak in the ribs._ _

__Isak elbows him back, but with a little more force. “I think you just wanted to stalk me,” he teases, raising his eyebrows and tilting his chin up like a challenge over a smile._ _

__Even rolls his eyes and places his arm back around Isak’s seat. “He loves him, though,” Even continues, gazing back out the window. “Elias,” he corrects, as if he were unclear. “Loves Eskild. Even though he, you know, spared me the details about everything. It was really brave of him to talk to me about it at all. And I could just tell. That he loved him.”_ _

__“And Eskild loves Elias,” Isak echos. “Which is saying a lot,” his voices turns high into a laugh. “Because I’ve never seen him so… _defensive._ About someone. But he loves him.”_ _

__Even’s hand makes its way back through Isak’s hair. This time, slowly. And with purpose. Fingers twisting around stray curls and short nails lightly scratching at the soft spots behind Isak’s ears. He turns to him after a minute of this. Eyes blue and wide and on the verge of piercing Isak’s soul in a way that might be permanently damaging. Even takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Then why don’t they make it work?”_ _

__This isn’t really a question. Well, it is. But it’s not about Elias and Eskild. Isak’s too stunned to answer, so he just repeats it. This time, more as if it’s a mantra. Or a reminder. To himself. “Why don’t they make it work.”_ _

__Even looks like he’s about to lean in, but the doors to the apartment building are opening, catching Isak’s eye._ _

__Elias comes out first, hand in hand with Eskild—who looks maxed out on both joy and awe. He’s not wearing a coat or anything warm, and Isak smiles at the idea of Elias being too excited to make sure Eskild had everything—dragging him down the stairs because he just can’t wait. Elias loops him around to face front, ignoring everyone walking by and moving his hands up to Eskild’s cheeks. He leans in and places a kiss to his lips, and Isak can practically see the alleviation melt out of Eskild. His eyes shut in that strained kind of way, as if he can’t believe this is real. As if he can’t believe his _life_ is real. Like maybe, just maybe, this roller coaster will be over, and Elias will be his forever with no interruption. _ _

__Ten seconds pass. Then twenty. And they’re still kissing out in the middle of the sidewalk in front of the apartment. Holding each other by their faces and tilting their heads—and Isak can tell they’re just as lost as he is every time he kisses Even._ _

__Who’s no longer looking at them and smiling. He’s looking at Isak and smiling._ _

__Their eyes meet. That ocean blue and forest green._ _

__Even leans in, saying, “because I don’t know when I’m going to be able to do this again,” before grabbing Isak’s face with both hands and kissing him. Breaking away and tilting his head to get a better angle, if that’s a thing that exists. And he tugs at Isak, as if space is the enemy and the only way to defeat it is by making sure Isak knows their bodies belong next to each other._ _

__And they kiss in the car—uncomfortably bent together in their seats over the center console—with open mouths and bitten lips that turn into smiles. (This actually might be Isak’s favorite thing—feeling Even’s smile as he kisses him.) It’s sweet and hot—a combination Isak likes but didn’t know existed before Even._ _

__They break away suddenly when the back door to the car opens, but realize they don’t have to be worried about being seen, because Elias and Eskild are kissing their way into the car. Little pecks over and over again that sometimes linger—their eyes never leaving each others’ when they break away._ _

__Even ducks his head and bites his lip to keep his smirk from turning into a full blown grin. He flutters his eyes up to Isak for a second before glancing in the rearview mirror at his friend, who’s realized love is worth it all._ _

__Isak wishes he could kiss his crush (okay, it’s a lot more than a crush) in the backseat all the way to the Bakkoush household, too, but is almost just as happy that Eskild gets to instead._ _

__It isn’t until they pull up that Eskild’s expression starts to slowly melt into apprehension. Isak can see it written all over his face as he breaks away from Elias and glances out the back window to the row of homes. “Is this your place?” Eskild asks Elias, faces still close._ _

__Elias nods with a nervous smile, and Isak can practically feel time slip away from them. Because he’s seen this before, and all he wants is Eskild to be happy. He’s praying for Elias to hang on. To see what he sees in Even’s eyes in Eskild’s. Something bright and white and worth everything, no matter how frightening._ _

__If only Isak could take his own advice._ _

__Eskild does a nervous swallow—the words there but hard and heavy on the way out. “Are your parents home?”_ _

__Elias glances behind him, as if to check. When he turns back, his lips curl over a smile and then over Eskild’s quickly before pulling away again. He whispers it lowly. Privately. And suddenly Isak feels like he’s intruding on something. “I think everyone is.”_ _

__Eskild nods, and then turns to find Isak in the passenger seat. “Oh,” he says, rather embarrassed but also slightly smug. “Hi, Isak. And—”_ _

__“Even,” Even greets, turning his body to shake Eskild’s hand, which makes his eyes grow bright and knowing as Eskild looks from Even to Isak and back again several times._ _

__Eskild mouths a _damn, pretty boy_ over to Isak when the handshake is over, and Isak responds with a barely there _shut up.__ _

__But then, because it’s Eskild, Isak laughs. “You didn’t notice I was here this whole time?” Isak asks, reaching his arm around to shove Eskild playfully on the shoulder._ _

__He drops his jaw in fake offence, placing a dramatic hand to his chest and dropping his chin. “I’m sorry,” Eskild sneers with a smile, turning and pecking Elias on the temple. “But how can you notice anything at all when the most handsome man in the world is sitting right here?” He kisses Elias again—this time on the lips—sweet and smiley. Isak ducks his head to give them a minute of privacy._ _

__Isak hears Elias whisper _that’s you_ through their kiss—giggling with the last part._ _

__When Isak turns to Even, as if their eyes are magnets whenever he doesn’t know where else to look, that blue is already on him._ _

__Even raises his eyebrows and echoes the words. Nothing more than a whisper. “That’s you,” he mouths, taking his hand and brushing his fingers softly on Isak’s cheek. Over his eyebrow. On his bottom lip. The admission written all over his face._ _

__Isak practically melts into it._ _

__And like in Even’s room, they’re all safe in here. But they can’t be forever. Reality is about to come crashing down on them, and Isak hopes it’s in the best way possible. For Elias and Eskild, at least. Reality for Isak and Even will have to wait._ _

__One battle at a time._ _

__When they’ve all finally pulled away from each other, it seems as if everyone in the car takes a deep breath—afraid to puncture the air by opening the doors and stepping out into what is seemingly the unknown. At least, that’s how it seems to Isak, who feels so fragile wrapped in this atmosphere—both for Eskild and for himself as he feels last night and this morning slipping away from him every time he and Even are no longer alone._ _

__Which is the direct opposite of how things used to be, Isak thinks. They used to cling to the familiarity of a crowd to be able to kiss each other. They used to need an excuse to press their hands together, fingers locking. They used to need _other people around_ to do what they wanted. But now, Isak knows that if he and Even were alone, they’d do those same things. This time, with that less-refined edge that stings a little when Isak feels it scrape against him. _ _

__So Isak used to want— _to crave_ —that belonging, knowing that Even was his when it was all a show. When he needed everyone else to be a witness. But now, Isak prays for everyone to leave—terrified that all that white he’s been selfishly savoring (and maybe even taking for granted) will slip away the longer Even is at his side; Isak not being able to do anything about it._ _

__But the four of them manage to move—mostly with the help of Even, who opens his door first to step out. “Ready?” He asks._ _

__It could have been rather ambiguous, but each of the boys seem to think the question is for them. They all answer in unison, with a simultaneous, “ready.”_ _

__

__———_ _

__

__Isak’s again smashed between Even and Elias, this time on the Bakkoush household couch. The camera is in front of them, rolling for funny bloopers and moments, probably, but the actual content of the video hasn’t started yet. Elias is briefing them all on the plan—something about a question game or a Q and A and Twitter and fan questions. It’s hard for Isak to hear with everyone talking over each other—laughing and joking and shoving._ _

__It’s been rather anticlimactic so far, Isak thinks. He was a ball of nerves with Eskild on his tail on the way inside, readying himself for a scene or a revelation or _something,_ but nothing happened. So far he’s just been introduced as _Eskild_ to everyone. No labels or connections. And thankfully, the word _friend_ hasn’t been used, because Isak knows that would crumble Eskild into a million little pieces._ _

__But Eskild is here—exchanging pleasantries and drinking tea with Sana and mamma and pappa Bakkoush who are sitting at the kitchen table. Isak keeps glancing at him, and he looks fine on the outside. But Isak can _tell._ He can tell through his small mannerisms and nervous laughing that Eskild is a mess—clumsy-footed and forgetting how to speak as he realizes he’s in Elias’s home. Talking to his parents._ _

__There’s a tension in the air he can feel between just himself, Even, and Eskild. As if something is about to _happen_ —which Isak is trying to not psych himself up for. Maybe this is Elias’s first big step. Just the presence of Eskild in the safe little bubble of his family and friends. Which, admittedly, is maybe enough for right now, but Isak knows Eskild is waiting._ _

__And he’s patient, thank god, but Isak assumes maybe also a little disappointed._ _

__But Isak doesn’t feel this tension around Elias, who is beaming. Ecstatic. _Waiting.__ _

__And so is Isak._ _

__“Alright!” Elias claps his hands and looks at the camera, ready to start. The boys settle around him. Adam and Mikael on his left, Even and Isak on his right, and Yousef and Mutta sandwiching them all together on the sides. “Since this video took a turn towards everyone’s favorite subject, kissing,” he reiterates, referencing the last time they filmed and got off on the tangent of Isak and Even, “we’ve decided to play a little kiss Q and A.” He waggles his eyebrows at the camera. “Thanks, boys,” he elbows Isak playfully in the ribs, who looks over at Even and blushes._ _

__“Kiss Q and A?” Adam repeats._ _

__Elias pinches the bridge of his nose and leans back into the couch. “Did you not listen to me while I was talking?” He groans._ _

__Isak hears Eskild laugh from the kitchen, his eyes sparkly and bright as they land on his boyfriend. He looks back down with a flustered smile into his tea when he catches Elias’s eye from across the room._ _

__“Yes,” Elias repeats, focusing. “Kiss Q and A. And since you’re such a dumbass, you can go first.” He pulls out his phone and swipes it open. “Oh—” He looks at the camera. “And shoutout to all of our followers who tweeted at us last night in response to our call for questions!” He scrolls, as if to find a particularly nasty question for Adam. He smiles when he finds it. “This first question comes from @itsonlywednesday,” he smirks, turning to him with a devilish grin. “How do you tell someone you like that they’re a bad kisser?”_ _

__Adam groans. “You don’t want my answer,” he mumble-laughs, dragging a hand over his face and resting his elbows on his knees. He looks at Elias, who nods, and then into the camera with a sigh. “Uh, I would _personally_ just tell them that maybe that thing they’re doing… or. Uh. Not doing? Isn’t working for me. But the polite thing to do would probably be to subtly tell them what you _do_ like. In hopes, I guess, that they do more of that and less of what you don’t like. Because hearing that you’re a bad kisser is… probably not the best. Especially, you know. If you like each other and shit.”_ _

__“You’re the worst kisser,” Mikael deadpans, slinging an arm over Adam’s shoulders. Everyone is silent before erupting with laughter—Elias’s more on the nervous side as he eyes his parents in the other room, wondering if they heard that comment._ _

__“Okay,” Elias calms everyone down. “Next one is for…” he scrolls, picking another good one. “Even,” he decides with a grin. “What’s the difference between kissing a girl and a boy?”_ _

__Even leans back, putting his arm flat on the back of the couch behind Isak. He bites his lip and squints his eyes. “Hmmm,” he thinks out loud. “Nothing, really,” he says at first, but then backtracks. “I mean, if you’re like… kissing and getting physical, then obviously that’s different. Most of the time, girls wear makeup and boys don’t, so that’s a little different, too. But otherwise nothing. A kiss is a kiss. Who it’s with—like who they _are_ —is the most important thing. To me.”_ _

__Even’s arm slips from the back of the couch to behind his back. The butterflies have returned. Tenfold._ _

__“Alright... Isak,” Elias shoots over at him after scrolling to another tweet, causing his face to still and the color to drain from it. He hasn’t even heard the question yet but can already feel his insides freeze._ _

__“This one’s from @sulten2: How can you tell if someone really loves you while you're kissing them?”_ _

__Well, wouldn’t he like to fucking know. Besides the fact that the only kisses he’s ever shared with _anyone_ who’s come close to making him feel _any_ sort of varient of love is sitting right next to him, his brain is short-circuiting as he tries to sort the fake kisses from the real kisses. Every one playing like a flashback in his brain. _ _

__Kiss goodbye in the car on the way home from Isak’s mom’s dinner party: real or fake? Almost drunk kiss on Even’s kitchen counter: real or fake? Kiss with no witness in the cabin: real or fake? Kiss yesterday on the couch while they filmed Hei Briskeby: real or fake?_ _

__He does a few rapid blinks. Stammers. “Um,” he starts, one word down (is _um_ a word?) and already at a loss. “I think…”_ _

__“It’s different,” Even chimes in, rescuing him. And Isak can feel his hand tighten around his waist. “In a lot of ways. Different for everybody. But it’s different in the fact that you just _know_ something is _different.”__ _

__“Yeah,” Isak agrees with a nod after he remembers to stop staring at Even in blissful awe. “Something is just. Different.” But he doesn’t. He keeps right on looking._ _

__Mutta takes his phone out to break the tension, seemingly scrolling through the Hei Briskeby Twitter feed. “How come you get to ask all the questions, huh?” He pushes Elias playfully on the top of his head. “Afraid to answer them?”_ _

__Isak sees Elias hide a nervous gulp with a smile. “No,” he lies. “Fine, fire away.”_ _

__Isak is trying to see regret on his face. To see discomfort or grievance. Searching his features for that _oh fuck_ moment. But all Isak sees is a plan, glinting through his eyes like a sword with a flash of bravery._ _

__“This one is from @alwayschili: If you could kiss anyone—dead or alive. Fictional or real. Who would you kiss?”_ _

__Elias cranes his neck over to look at Eskild. Isak follows his gaze. They’re still chatting happy and cozy in the kitchen—Eskild looks like he’s calmed down a little, like maybe the nerves have evaporated once conversation started to flow. But Isak knew they would. He can be over the top, sure, but who doesn’t like Eskild?_ _

__Isak sees Eskild’s ears perk when his name is called, and Isak hears the name in his ear coming from Elias on the other side. It’s a question: one that makes Eskild’s head snap when it’s fully registered. He has a confused smile on his face, and Isak knows he hasn’t been paying attention. Doesn’t know what game they’re playing. Doesn’t know that he is the answer to Elias’s question. He jabs a finger into his own chest, as if to ask _me?__ _

__“Yeah,” Elias waves. “C’mere.”_ _

__There’s a loud scrape of chair legs on the tile floor as Eskild gets up nervously, glancing between Elias, the Bakkoush family, and finally, Isak, who he raises his eyebrows at._ _

__And Isak can only shrug his shoulders, his own heart beating frantically in his chest—so he can’t even imagine how Eskild must be feeling._ _

__Elias waves his hands, beckoning Eskild to get a move on as he slowly and apprehensively moves towards the boys—a smile on Eskild’s face mixed with admiration and fear._ _

__Which becomes shrouded in both affliction and paradise as Elias pulls him down into his lap and kisses him. Whatever internal conflict Eskild seems to be having dissipates immediately into this kiss, which is the kind Isak can tell is not enough. Frustrating, because it’s not enough. Eskild literally can’t pull Elias any closer. Literally can’t kiss him any harder. Yet it’s not enough—but in that hungry way Isak’s felt all too often. It’s not enough—but soon, it will be._ _

__Isak looks around at the boys. He glances through the entryway to the kitchen. Everyone is smiling, including himself._ _

__

__———_ _

__

> ____
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Tell Magnus and Jonas and Mahdi I said hi   
>  What are you all up to?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Literally nothing, like always  
>  Drinking shitty beer and I’m ignoring them while they talk about girls or something  
>  The usual  
>  You?
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I’m watching Atonement for the gazillionth and first time
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  It’s a good movie   
>  From what I remember of it
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  And why don’t you remember it, again?
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Shut up
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  Why don’t you make me?  
>  OH  
>  By the way  
>  Elias uploaded the new Hei Briskeby video this morning

__  
__  
  
  


__They’re at a stalemate._ _

__Things are grey, but they will always be grey if Isak doesn’t do something. But he’s bad at doing things. At making moves. Well, only when it comes to himself. That’s his weakness. If Isak can help other people—Eskild. Magnus—then he has a sense of purpose. But he always puts his own desires on the backburner—lets them simmer there until the bottom of the pan burns._ _

__So yeah, he’s bad at doing things when it comes to his own well-being._ _

__Yet all he can seem to do is prolong this grey he finds himself in—by doing what he does so well and shutting everything off. By not talking. By not letting himself enjoy anything._ _

__Because what are Isak and Even, really? Lost seems like a fitting word. Absent. Broken. Unable to move forward due to… uncertainty? Apprehension?_ _

__The real problem is that they’re afraid._ _

__Too afraid to do anything more than send cheeky messages to each other and beat around the bush—subtly hint that they’d like to see each other again but unsure of how to do that when every situation they _have_ been in is smashed together by chance. Or fate. That seems like a better word, at least to Isak._ _

__Although it’s been spelled out for both of them again and again—as if every kiss isn’t an oath in itself. As if he needs another sign to start moving forward. But maybe that _is_ what he needs. Or, that’s what he tells himself he needs—anything to prolong the procrastination of shucking off this shell he wears and exposing all of him for the first time to someone who has the actual potential to break him in half. This time, with words._ _

__Words Isak knows he can come up with if he sits down and thinks for a goddamn minute. But it’s hard, okay? It’s hard to think of all the things he would like to tell Even when those blue eyes pop into his brain—and suddenly he forgets what words even are._ _

__These are just casual Friday night thoughts, he guesses, while staring at his phone—at Even’s contact to be more exact—watching the little bubbles at the bottom of their chat turn to messages. Ignoring his friends in Magnus’s living room as they talk about school and girls and sports and other dumb shit Isak doesn’t have the capacity to care about right now._ _

__Until he hears Julian’s name._ _

__“Mags—” Jonas rolls his eyes. “You are just torturing yourself by letting him message you like this. Just block his number.”_ _

__Magnus ignores him. Instead, he keeps his eyes glued to his phone and scrolls, pausing at another message in what Isak assumes is a long chain of _I’m sorry's_ and _I love you’s_ to read another. “I would do anything, Magnus,” he reads aloud, his throat catching when he reads his own name. “I would do anything. Say anything. For you to give me another chance.” The more Magnus reads, the more annoyed he sounds. “Let me explain,” he reads again, dropping his phone to his lap and raising his hands with wide eyes as if to say _I give up.__ _

__“He’s got nothing to explain, man,” Mahdi says over a sip of his beer. “He cheated on you.”_ _

__Isak suddenly feels very uncomfortable—letting his tongue get trapped between his lips as he bites back a retort—or maybe another apology. Maybe another spiel to Magnus on how he deserves someone who loves him the way he’s been looking for._ _

__“Did he, though?” Magnus questions. “We weren’t, like, _official._ I mean, we did all the _official_ stuff, but we never said the words.”_ _

__Oh, that hurts. Isak’s cursing the universe for letting Magnus’s pain teach him a lesson._ _

__“I was just more bummed he was off getting laid while I was practically begging him to,” he continues. “Why does nobody want to bang me?”_ _

__“Because you’re—” Jonas starts._ _

__But Magnus cuts him off. “Do _not_ say desperate, man. Me and Julian were cool. Like, I was so chill. Besides constantly asking him to fuck me. _FUCK_ —Maybe I am desperate?”_ _

__He says it through half a laugh with the boys’ trailing him, but it doesn’t make Isak feel any better. Instead, Magnus’s words from a minute ago are still ringing in his head, causing his thumbs to hover suspiciously over his keyboard where the cursor blinks temptingly in his chat with Even. _But we never said the words.__ _

__“Why do I want to give him a second chance?” Magnus asks, mainly to himself but directed towards the guys as well. “Like, I feel like I should at least let him explain if he’s being so adamant about it—”_ _

__He’s cut off by knocking on the front door, which causes all the boys to turn their heads._ _

__“Your parents?” Mahdi asks._ _

__“Did you… invite someone?” Jonas chimes in._ _

__Magnus gets up from the couch and brushes off his pants. “Mahdi, why would my own parents knock on the door. And no, I didn’t invite anyone,” he answers with a scowl._ _

__Isak already knows who it is, though. With a sourness that twists his gut only to confirm it as Magnus opens the door and his face turns almost green._ _

__And then suddenly confessions are spilling out of Julian at the front door—he doesn’t step towards Magnus. He doesn’t get in his bubble. He doesn’t look to Jonas or Mahdi or Isak, because he can’t tear his eyes away from Magnus—both of their gazes singing different songs. One of remorse and one on the verge of vindication._ _

__“This is in no way any justification for what I did,” Julian starts, “but I can’t live with myself if you don’t know.”_ _

__Magnus does a nervous swallow, his hand retracting from the doorknob and lying placid at his side, giving a small nod as he waits for Julian to speak._ _

__He takes a small step forward—maybe only a centimeter—as if it’s a test. When Magnus doesn’t object, he takes another. It’s gentle. And slow. And Isak can see why Magnus fell for Julian, if this is any indication of how he was when they were together._ _

__He see’s Julian's hand twitch for a brief moment, like he wants to reach out and grab Magnus’s. Julian stops himself, though, and Isak can practically hear him think _one step at a time_ to himself._ _

__“I don’t know how to ask for things,” Julian admits. “I don’t do…” he stumbles, gesturing around to Magnus, “this—but not because I don’t want to, okay? Because I thought I didn’t need to. I thought I’d be safe forever. Safe from feelings and getting hurt and—and then. And then I met you. And I would do way more romantic things than take you to the movies and buy you dinner, Magnus,” he chokes. “But I’m not that creative, so thank god that you are.” His eyes are watering and his smile is laced with sadness._ _

__Isak wishes he had a better look at Magnus’s face._ _

__“I slept with two other people,” Julian confesses. “Each one time. And it was a hard habit to break—and I do it, no, _did_ it, because it was an escape. A long broken road of escaping that was basically me torturing myself. Putting on a mask and using something meaningless to block out the thought that I don’t deserve love.”_ _

__Isak can’t help but lurch his neck forward a little as vomit starts to pool in his throat—his brain heavy with liquid that makes it hard to keep up. His eyes heavy and rolling as he closes them to gain some sense of composure. Because these are the words. These are the words he needs to tell Even and they sound sick to Isak. But only because they are true._ _

__“And then I met you, Magnus,” Julian repeats softly with breaking syllables, bravery strung through his arm as he uses it to stretch out and hold Magnus’s hand. Magnus lets him. “And I’m right. I don’t. At least, not from you—not after what I _did_ to you. But I just wanted—needed you to know. That it wasn’t you. That I was the one who wanted to wait, because I liked you. I _like_ you, fuck, I really fucking like you, and it was me. I was the one who spiraled into a dark place and put dark thoughts in my head and reinforced those dark thoughts by falling into old habits and doing things to ruin it all. Because that’s what I do when I’m scared. I ruin things. But I don’t want to ruin you—you deserve everything. You deserve to know why.”_ _

__Isak contemplates running outside to spew his guts out, but is afraid to move because he, you know, might spew his guts out._ _

__And he hated Julian, he really fucking did. Left Even hanging because it was so important to tell him off—that’s how much he hated him. But now that everything Julian is saying is everything Isak didn’t know he’s feeling—everything he didn’t know he’s been doing to Even—he can’t hate him. In fact, he’s looking to Magnus, wondering and praying and hoping for a reaction that doesn’t tear him in half, because if it does, Isak might not be able to say the words now that he’s finally got them._ _

__Magnus kisses Julian. Hard and sweet and all-consuming as they stand there with one pair of hands folded together and one pair of hands cupping each other’s faces. Afraid to move and break this moment—and boy, doesn’t Isak know that feeling all too well._ _

__Jonas catches Isak’s eye in the corner as he moves to get up—anger painted all over his face._ _

__When he glances to Mahdi for confirmation and then to Isak, Isak shakes his head, then jerks it towards the back door._ _

__Jonas is hesitant, but Isak is insistent, jerking his head again with gritted teeth and mouthing _this has nothing to do with us_ as he gets up to go, practically dragging Jonas by the arm to follow him with Mahdi trailing behind._ _

__They start walking. Isak doesn’t know where. Jonas and Mahdi are talking. Isak doesn’t know about what. All he can hear in his ears over and over again are Julian's words. _A long broken road of escaping that was basically me torturing myself. Putting on a mask and using something meaningless to block out the thought that I don’t deserve love.__ _

__Which is a hard thought to process, but the one Isak’s been carrying with him all his life. The one that reinforced him to believe he was only hookup material. The one that caused him to _be_ only hookup material by his own actions and his own accord._ _

__The one that won’t let him say the words._ _

__Two steps. Isak needs to take two steps, and he needs to start with number one._ _

__One: He needs to remove all sense of falsehood. He needs to usher the confession he should have taken a lot more seriously from the get-go._ _

__Isak pulls out his phone and pulls up Even’s contact. He copies the link to the newest Hei Briskby video and exits the conversation. He pulls up a new one—his mom._ _

__

> ____
> 
> **ISAK:**  
>  Watch this, and call me in the morning.
> 
> ____

__  
__  
  
  


__Two: He needs to break the stalemate. He needs to make the first move with Even._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk to me on [tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

> **EVEN:**  
>  Good morning :)  
> 

Yeah, that’s a thing now. It’s the first message Isak sees mixed in with his usual trail of notifications that line his home screen when he wakes up—his eyes trained to look for Even’s name. Isak notices he’s smiling at the message and glances at the time. 8:01. He doesn’t think he’s smiled this early in the morning before, but his insides feel that warm fuzzy grey he’s akin to now, and he finally doesn’t hate waking up anymore, so he keeps the smile on his face.

He wouldn’t put it past himself, either, to do that dramatic thing where he holds his phone to his chest and closes his eyes for a minute due to sheer and utter joy, but his sleepy smile soon falters as he scrolls down and sees seven missed calls from his mom.

Who, honestly, should know better than to call Isak before eight in the morning.

But he hasn’t forgotten. Julian's words still ring loud in his ears and have carried tried and true with him into this morning, prompting him to reach out and confess to his mother in the first place. And although the anxiety of calling her back feels like little gnats eating away at him—annoying but small enough to not do any damage—he knows that talking to her is the first step to fixing this mess. To fixing everything he could possibly have with Even before it all slips between his fingers.

Because nothing good ever starts with a lie.

On autopilot, he taps on her missed call and brings the phone to his ear before he has time and an awake, functioning brain to excuse his way out of it.

“Hello?” Her voice sounds worried on the other end when she picks up.

Isak lets out a shaky breath he tries to cover with a yawn. “Hi, mom,” he begins, sleep still in his voice. “Did you get my message?”

“Yes.”

Of all the times to not be chatty, she would pick now—to make Isak grovel as she plays passive-aggressive while he spells it out. Isak can practically see her roll her eyes on the other line.

“Did you watch the video?” He drags out the beginning of the sentence, trying not to make his inflection demeaning. Because of course she watched it—that’s why Isak woke up to seven missed calls.

“Isak, honey—” she starts, cutting herself off with a sharp inhale and probably a pinch between her eyebrows. Isak wouldn’t be surprised if she was pacing the living room. “I’m not an idiot. I’m your _mother,”_ she almost chuckles. “I may have been fooled over the phone, but as soon as you brought him to dinner… I knew.”

The words are strangely cathartic. Relieving, even. Because now Isak doesn’t have to be a heartbreaker, although he does feel kind of stupid.

“You didn’t even have _rings,”_ Marianne laughs, as if remembering. “Don’t you think I’d want to see a ring? But I didn’t want to embarrass you. And you two looked way too comfortable to not at least be friendly—no one about to get married is still as gross as you two.”

Isak stays silent, his mouth in a little gape as he struggles for the words. Which seems to be a repeating pattern in his life.

“And you obviously like him. I just wanted you to keep liking him, because, well, _I_ liked him.”

At that, Isak laughs. He ignores the last part, though, because it’s obvious enough without having to confirm it. “You thought we were _gross?”_ He challenges with a snicker. His lips are turning up at the mere mention of _him_ and _Even_ and _gross._ In the fondest way, though, of course. Because they are pretty gross.

“You know what I mean!” His mom laughs, mixing with Isak’s own. “I don’t blame you for being so enamoured. He’s very handsome.”

God, Isak’s glad no one can see his face in the safety of his room—wide with a smile up over his teeth and a bright red face. It feels _good_ to admit it. _Finally._ Whether that be with actual words or little laughs that give it all away. He knows, and now his mom knows. 

And suddenly, liking Even feels very, very real.

“Yeah,” Isak confesses with a quick breath. “He is.”

“I just want you to be happy, Isak,” his mom almost whispers on the other end. And it’s softer. Their laughter has faded away from the situation, clearing the way for what lies at the heart of this mess: the truth.

Which is what Isak needs to move forward.

 

————

 

It takes Isak one more day—one more long day and night before he talks to Even again after speaking with his mom. And he needs that day. He needs it to remember.

Sometimes, when Isak remembers Even, he categorizes all of their encounters into two parts: black and white. 

He does this mainly to remind himself what part of their relationship, for lack of a better word, is real, and what part is fake. He categorizes kisses. He classifies every glance. Sorts every touch. And he files them away into the cabinet of his brain marked _Even._ (Which is, honestly, taking up a large portion of it these days.) And whenever he finds himself in bed at night, thinking of kissing Even and letting memories of bright white flashes play like a reel behind his eyelids, he knows he’s indulging—because he will get lost in these. So he keeps those black memories, too, as if to remind himself—Even apologizing for kissing him goodbye; Even telling him to leave in the kitchen. And it bleeds that white right out until he closes his eyes and sees nothing but black.

Only lately, Isak hasn’t had to do that as much—because now the filing cabinet has another drawer. It’s a small one; the folder in it is thin. But all of their recent encounters have been filed away here: into this grey space. Into this skinny line that is slowly appearing, widening, and blurring between the black and white of Isak’s life. Between this reality of his that is almost perfect and this thing in his life that’s missing. 

And this new area—this grey space—is letting Isak merge the two.

He likes to live here—to remember Even in this grey space—because it feels safe. And It’s not as intense or vivid as the white, whose force knocks Isak off his feet with Even’s soft kisses and sweet words and constant reminders that he is not just here on this earth for someone else’s enjoyment. But it’s not as cold or stark as the black, either, that Isak doesn’t think he can ever go back to now that he’s gotten a taste.

So Isak remembers the kiss goodbye. He remembers the tension in Even’s kitchen. And he remembers the kiss at the cabin and the one for the Hei Briskeby video and the one when he came back to Even. And Isak realizes this grey area has been there all along. 

But there’s a problem with safety. It’s stagnant. It keeps Isak rooted in one place and hoping for the best, which, if he’s honest, has never gotten him anywhere in life so far. He’s hid in the safety of his Grindr hookups and in the safety of his routine and now, in the safety of this limbo with Even. If Isak stays here, nothing will happen.

Which he’s already decided is not an option.

So he takes a moment to continue remembering. He remembers falling asleep with Even on the couch and savoring that magic hour—of feeling Even’s lips press against his hair and of warm skin on skin and of sleepy smiles. He remembers that same night, too—of letting the darkness make him brave and of trying to be quiet and of letting go right alongside Even as they allowed themselves some relief. Isak remembers the morning—of waking up with kisses (which, _wow,_ he sometimes still can’t get over) and of breakfast in bed and of the safety of Even’s room. He remembers all of these grey moments—his phone clutched to his chest with the message already typed out—for just another second, which could be the second everything comes crashing down.

And he will savor this grey second for the rest of his life if he has to—this feeling of giddy hope and absolute love that makes him feel alive. He just needs to feel it for this one last, lingering moment to remind himself it exists.

And then he tips his phone up, reads the message again, and hits send.

> **ISAK:**  
>  I have something I need to tell you.

Isak’s heart is racing. His stomach starts to curdle when he sees message bubbles appear under his sent one almost immediately. He tries to put himself in Even’s shoes and wonder how he would react getting that same message, but he can’t—he _knows_ how he would react. Probably by throwing up out of either excitement or anxiety or a complicated concoction of the two.

> **EVEN:**  
>  It better be another invitation.  
>  A family reunion? A wedding?  
>  A VACATION?   
>  Don’t tease me, Valtersen  
>  Oh shit, it’s not a funeral, is it?

Everything on Isak’s body softens back into place, and he smiles at his phone as he begins to type again.

> **ISAK:**  
>  No, no funerals *wink emoji*  
>  KB? Double Americano? I’ll buy this time
> 
> **EVEN:**  
>  I’ll meet you there in 15

So Isak gets out of bed and layers up to brave the outside, crossing the threshold to his apartment like it’s a portal to a new world. Hhe orders two double Americanos at KB, sweating a bit under his hat and scarf from the sweet smelling steam of espresso and maybe just a little bit from the words in his belly that soon will have a new life in the open air.

Even arrives a few minutes late, like always, and Isak can’t help but think that when they’re old and grey, this habit of his might teeter more on the annoying rather than endearing side. But that’s totally fine—that’s what happens when you’re with someone for a long time.

Isak shakes that idea right out of his head, because he’s getting ahead of himself.

Even is beaming as always, that white shining ray of light that pulls Isak in. He’s comfortably cloaked in layers he begins to shed as he sits down across from Isak at the corner window table, revealing floppy, messy hair (that Isak might think is his favorite thing—all messed up like this) and a red-tipped nose with flushed cheeks that soon even out as the warmth of the cafe seeps into his skin.

Isak takes this in for a minute, and love hits him like a freight train. A blow of white straight to his side that _hurts._ Everything in his body unintentionally lurches forward, and he stops himself at his fingertips to keep from reaching for Even. Because once Isak starts, he won’t be able to stop.

When Even settles, reaching for the cup across from him next to Isak’s, their smiles are magnets that find each other effortlessly—tipping up around sips of piping hot coffee before they even utter a word. 

Which, Isak thinks, would not be his immediate reaction if Even texted him twenty minutes ago with an _I have something to tell you._ He’d be a nervous mess.

But Even’s calm and cool. Like always. And Isak is, too—on the outside, at least—like always. 

“So,” Isak starts, setting his cup down but keeping both hands clasped around it. “I showed my mom the new Hei Briskeby video.” He eyes Even nervously, biting the inside of his cheek and wishing this whole thing could skip a few pages and they could get right down to the kissing. And he prays that page exists at all.

Even’s smile falters, but he recovers quickly with another one that’s more cheeky and less mushy. “So,” he mimics, “does this mean that I’m no longer your fiancé?” The inflection is barely there, like he’s not really asking. Even’s voice is softer and lower, too, and his eyes stay trained on his mug before flashing up to Isak. They’re warm, though—if blue can be warm.

And it feels like a breakup, although Isak’s never experienced one before. But the nice kind. The kind without yelling and crying and broken hearts. That kind that ends in new beginnings.

“No longer my fiancé,” Isak repeats with a small sneer, which soon grows into a grin behind a bitten lip and matches the one appearing on Even’s face.

Even places both hands behind his neck in a stretch while he swings a leg over to rest his ankle on his knee. “Damn,” he mutters under his breath, contemplating and beaming and looking like the fucking sun as he stares out of the window for a moment.

It takes everything inside of Isak to not jump across the table into his lap and pour his heart out—words spilling between pressed lips and hands through blonde curls and waves and that _undeniable thirst_ to just pull Even _closer._ Closer and closer and closer until it’s physically impossible yet somehow still an urge.

Even’s eyes dart back to meet Isak’s, light and layered in the bright sun through the glass. He takes his hands back from behind his neck and rests his elbows on the table, taking a long and slow drink of coffee before he speaks again. “Then what’s my excuse to see you?” He asks around the last sip, eyebrows up in question.

He’s completely serious, so, of course, when Isak struggles to find a good answer to such important questions, he cracks a joke.

“We can still be friends,” Isak laughs with a little eyebrow wiggle and a nip to his own bottom lip, letting his smile take over.

Even _laughs._ Big and full and deep. And it’s loud—it makes people's’ heads turn, but Isak thinks not in an annoyed way, but in a _holy hell, who is that?_ way. Even’s eyes crinkle up above his burst of fondness—and love, again, hits Isak like a freight train. Only this time from the other side and completely unexpected. So his body is bruised and broken and screaming for someone to come heal him.

Someone who is sitting right across from him.

Yet Isak will let love hit him over and over as long as he does this right. Because like he’s thought once before, Even is something to be careful with. Even is something he needs to ease into. Even is something special.

“Ouch, Isak,” Even clutches his heart in mock offense as the words break through his laughter. “The classic breakup line.”

Isak blushes into his coffee with a smile, and he’s glad the whole situation is light and airy—but that’s all he seems to feel with Even, anyway.

Isak’s phone buzzes once in his pocket, and he gives Even the _one second_ finger as he fishes it out and swipes open the message.

> **MAMMA:**  
>  Is he your boyfriend?

Isak looks back up to meet Even’s gaze, and he’s never _wanted_ something so much in his entire life. So much so that that simple word— _boyfriend_ —makes his insides string themselves together with bravery to start crossing that blurry grey line.

He locks his phone, slips it back into his pocket, and doesn’t answer her.

“Why are you so smiley?” Even asks as Isak takes another sip, and Isak could very well frame the question back at him—glowing in the sunlight with his eyes scrunching up over a grin that surely rivals it. Even reaches over and pinches Isak’s cheek, causing him to almost spit his coffee out as a few drops spill from his mug. Isak grins as wide as he can with a closed mouth as he tries to swallow through the laugh, brushing Even’s hand aside with sparkling eyes. He sticks his tongue out at him after he wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

After an impish scrunch of his face and narrowed eyes, because Even does not have permission to tickle him (lie lie lie), Isak shrugs his shoulders. “Newly single,” he flirts, shifting his eyebrows up and looking back down into his coffee with a sheepish grin.

This time, Even’s laugh is a little different. A little lower. A little softer and a little shorter. His eyes don’t meet Isak’s at the beginning. “Back to your Grindr hookups?” He whispers, too curious to be dark and too scared to be light.

It could be a snarky comment, but Isak knows it’s laced with a little bit of pain—and he knows it had to come to this eventually, because this is, at the heart of it all, what he needs to tell Even about.

“You saw me delete the app,” Isak tip toes. “Listen—”

Even scrunches his eyes and opens them again, as if to remind himself not to show too much. “I don’t want to know the details,” he cuts Isak off.

Which only makes Isak feel a little worse. “Please just listen,” he borderline begs, his coffee going cold and forgotten between his hands while he stares into its contents, as if looking for a sign. When Even stays silent, Isak does as well. He waits until Even nods with approval, as if giving permission to continue. 

“This, actually,” Isak admits, “is what I wanted to talk to you about. Not about showing my mom the Hei Briskeby video.” Isak looks up, biting his lip—his thoughts starting to tangle in his throat—and he knows word vomit is not far behind this confession. “Because you deserve to know that I have slept with random people time and time again and it fucks _everything_ up.” He stops, but can’t bring himself to look at Even. “And I do it because it’s like... a bad drug or something—it feels like an eraser. Like I’m literally, just, _erasing_ everything I hate about myself and everything I think other people hate about me only to find that I hate myself even _more_ when it’s all over. And no one ever…” Isak shuts his eyes and lets out a stuttered breath, “wants anything _more_ from me, and I’m afraid this eraser is nearing the end. Like… like I’m all used up at the end of some pencil and pretty soon when someone tries to use me again it’s just going to be that stupid metal piece holding it in scratching against the paper.”

Even’s mouth is parted. His eyes are wide and watery and even then, when his pain is obviously rooted in Isak’s, Isak wants to hold him close and tell him everything will be okay.

“And I’m telling you this,” Isak inhales, his next breath like one foot off the grey—the other hovering over the white. “Because I want something more. I want something real.”

Isak doesn’t realize he’s been closing his eyes and holding his breath this whole time—actually, all five of his senses have kind of just shut off.

But they come to—one by one—as the silence slowly disappears with his sense of hearing.

He listens to the steady pour of espresso in the background. People clicking away on their laptops. Quiet laughs and chatter. And then suddenly his heart pounding in his ears a million miles a minute.  
He can smell it, too. Coffee and baked goods and warmth and maybe a little nervous sweat.  
He tastes his dry mouth. It’s hot and sticky and is bitter like his double Americano. He desperately needs a glass of water.  
He can feel his hand being squeezed, which leads him to—  
He sees Even’s fingers interlocked with his when he peeks his eyes open. And then blue blue blue when he looks up.

“I need to tell you something, too,” Even says with a low whisper. Somehow, his other hand has found Isak’s across the table, linking them together while cold coffees lie trapped between them.

Isak squeezes them, and he feels white draw in from it and seep into his veins. Running hot through his fingers and hands and up to his elbows. He does it again—just to check—and it happens another time.

“Do you remember…” Even starts, eyes staring down at their knit fingers and holding on like he’s afraid Isak might let go if he finishes the sentence. “When I said my biggest fear was losing control?”

Isak takes a long breath in—and he holds it. He holds it until his face feels blue and he uses every ounce of strength to keep the tightness in his throat from shoving upwards into a sob. He can’t speak, so he nods his head and squeezes Even’s hands one more time. The white draws in again, and he can breathe.

“I fuck everything up, too,” Even admits, “and for the first time in my life, I could pretend to have it—everything. Control. Love. Someone who didn’t always feel bad for me.” Even pauses his breath around the last word, another one stuck on his tongue—the serifs poking his cheeks as he tries to wrestle it out. He looks up at Isak, and this time, squeezes his hands and warms Isak’s veins. His voice is softer than Isak’s ever heard it. “You.”

And now that one foot that’s been hovering over the white space is down. There’s one foot in, and now Isak just needs the other.

“But the truth is I don’t have control,” Even confesses, “and I hid that truth from you to pretend like I did—and that was a selfish thing to do, and I’m sorry.”

Isak doesn’t get it. He keeps his hands and eyes and everything rooted to Even, as if everything is unraveling. But maybe Even just needs time—just like Isak, whose words come spilling one after the other only after long periods of silence.

“And do you remember,” Even almost laughs, “when we were sitting right here,” he takes one hand away and gestures around—linking their fingers back delicately after a moment. Isak savors every cell buzzing against each other—Even’s hands warm and rough. Big around his own. Full of all the touches that make him go weak in the keens. “And you saw my drawings and said some smart nerd shit about brains and art and science—” he catches himself with a laugh, as if remembering. Even licks his lips and pauses, holding his breath after an inhale. “And I said my brain wasn’t normal,” he whispers, taking his eyes away from Isak.

“I remember,” Isak answers softly—waiting.

“I’m bipolar,” Even admits, looking up to meet green eyes after the words are gone, hanging between them heavy and confusing.

Maybe a year ago, Isak wouldn’t have known what to do. Wouldn’t have known what to think or how to react or how respond—he wouldn’t have been able to handle it, to be honest. Another person in his life so full of warmth and light and love with this label hovering over them that rips everything he knows to shreds.

But Isak’s learned things. He’s seen change. He’s been to hell and back and realized people are people—there’s good ones and bad ones, and nothing they can’t control makes them that way. So he squeezes Even’s hands, and that little gesture brings Even back to life.

“That doesn’t mean you have no control,” Isak whispers. “And it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve happiness,” he swallows, the next words sticky coming out of his mouth. “Or love.”

“But I pretty much lied to you,” Even freezes, almost in disbelief that everything isn’t crumbling around him. But it’s okay, because Isak feels the same way.

“We’re fucked up,” Isak bites his lip and smiles, turning one of Even’s hands over in his own to draw little circles on his palm. “But that doesn’t mean _it_ has to be fucked up.”

Even knows—he knows what _it_ is—but he asks anyway. “What do you mean?” He smiles a little, grabbing Isak’s fingers in his palm to lace them back together.

“Something real,” Isak hums softly. “You and I deserve something real.”

Even tilts his head to the side slightly, floppy blonde hair giving a small bounce. “Is that why you told your mom?” He asks, “so you can go find something real?”

Isak leans in over the small table, having to lift himself off of his chair slightly so he can cross the distance to kiss Even—right here in KB. And _this. This_ is Isak’s favorite kiss of them all. There are strangers around and there’s an obstacle between them and maybe their coffees have spilled, but Isak doesn’t care. When he feels Even’s lips thin into a smile as he kisses Isak back, Isak can feel the hot burn of tears daring to spill over out of pure and simple joy. Joy that’s brilliant and intense and dragging that other foot over until all he can feel are whitecaps threatening to knock him over and pushing him so far into that white space it’s all he sees when he shuts his eyes.

“I think I already have,” he says against Even’s lips when he turns his head to kiss him from the other side.

There’s a pause for just one second until Even lurches forward and stands, letting go of Isak’s hands so he can grab his face just to make sure it’s there—just to make sure it’s Isak’s face he’s kissing. And it starts off with parted lips and hungry tongues, but soon Even is just kissing every part of Isak’s face he can. His lips and cheeks and the tip of his nose and his eyelids—every little freckle and blemish and every divot, curve, and bump of his features.

And Isak finds himself standing, too—mildly aware that all eyes and ears are on them—pushing Even by the hips towards the doors so he can kiss him all the way home.

But they barely make it outside before Isak backs Even up into the brick of the building—pinning him there with his hips and standing on his tip toes while he reaches for Even’s hair and rakes his fingers through because it looks so good all fucked up.

“This,” Isak murmurs through a kiss, resting the side of his hip against KB like Even’s so they’re side by side now—hands on each other’s faces and heads tilted to the side so they don’t have to break away.

Even makes a questioning hum, pulling away and dodging Isak playfully as he leans in again.

But Isak’s insistent. He snakes his hand on Even’s cheek to the back of his neck and pulls him forward all too easily. “This is it,” he repeats over lips smashed together—this time still and stoic and a little shorter before pulling away, his words not any clearer than before. 

But Even knows what he means, because Isak is right.

“This is it,” Even echos, brushing his nose up against Isak’s and making it squish a little before tilting his head to place their lips together again.

And they kiss outside in the cold air and hot sun until someone shouts something vaguely similar to _get a room_ at them from a passing car.

Which doesn’t sound like a bad idea.

 

————

 

“When?” Even asks, plucking the joint from Isak’s lips and replacing it with a french fry, because _we’re going to need these, Isak._ Because _I have a plan and it involves not getting out of bed, Isak._ Because _have you ever even been high, Isak? We’re going to want french fries._

Isak doesn’t remember if he just didn’t hear the first half of the question, or if Even is being vague on purpose. His eyes are low and tired and his brain is perfectly cloudy and this bed is so so comfortable and _this french fry tastes so fucking good._ (But still not as good as Even’s lips—which he’s tasted a lot since they’ve laid down on Even’s bed.) “When what?” Isak mumbles.

Even shifts to get comfy, his shoulders nudging Isak’s and his head level with his, but upside-down. He turns it to look at Isak, who’s already looking back at him. “When did you…” he trails, waving his hand ambiguously in the air at nothing—swirling white smoke as they lay on white sheets and let white light pour in from the windows. “You know. Fall for me?” He waggles his eyebrows and takes another hit, passing the joint back to Isak who waves it off—one more and he might fall asleep. He’s already coming down, anyways—it’ll just give him a headache.

“Is this why you wanted to get high?” Isak asks with droopy eyes, tipping his chin up to ask for a kiss that Even indulges in all too quickly. It’s salty and sweet and Isak is melting right into the mattress. “To make me all mushy?” He asks again—bumping his nose against Even’s and getting another kiss. This time a little longer, and their mouths open slightly to deepen it.

“It’s working so far,” Even smiles, his hand on the back of Isak’s head twisting curls and scratching softly behind his ears. 

It brings Isak back to all of the times in Even’s car, and he rolls on his side to lean over Even and ask for more—kissing his way from the corner of his mouth to his neck and back again, where he slides his lips against Even’s soft and smokey ones and can’t help but smile.

“You still haven’t answered me,” Even reminds him, popping off of the kiss with a little force that bounces his hair. His eyes are wide and begging and Isak just can’t fucking say no to them.

He looks into blue for a moment, trying to decide if when they locked eyes for the first time he knew—but he thinks it might have been something else. “I fell right away,” Isak admits, pushing Even’s floppy hair off his forehead and resting his hand on the top of his head as he hovers over him. “I fell right when you kissed me. Something about it,” he affirms, glancing up as if to remember. “Something about the way you kissed me,” he repeats. “I’ve never been kissed like that in my life.”

“Show me,” Even teases, biting his bottom lip and arching his eyebrows. He’s trying to look sexy but he just looks like a fucking goof—he’s lucky that’s exactly what Isak likes.

“Show you what?” Isak plays dumb, because this is a game two can play.

Even tucks his bottom lips farther into his mouth as his smile grows and his eyebrows threaten to just disappear all the way off his forehead. He takes his hand on Isak’s neck and drags it to his waist.

And in a split second, Isak’s sides are splitting and he’s laughing uncontrollably and Even is _fucking tickling him._ So Isak flops down on him, breathless and dizzy from the weed and the laughing as he curls his legs around Even’s sides and buries his face in his neck—trying to shove Even’s hands away.

Which he’s able to do, since Isak’s a little stronger. 

Even’s palms find a place on Isak’s thighs which are wrapped around him. When Isak’s calmed down, he lightly slaps the middle of Even’s chest and he lets out a fake cough before returning to laughing himself.

“Jerk,” Isak pouts, threatening to roll off of Even but staying put when Even’s grip on him tightens.

“So—” Even presses, “show me how I kissed you.” This time his voice is lower and softer and there’s this _wanting_ in his eyes Isak has a hard time resisting. It’s amazing how Even can do that to him, really—can look at him with almost any expression and make that freight train hit Isak from all sides all over again. But this time, he’s free to kiss Even again and again to heal himself. “Or I’ll tickle you again, smartmouth.” 

Isak rolls his eyes, but he shows him. He takes the hand on the top of Even’s head and slips it to the base of his neck, curling his fingers in the waves before leaning down and starting slow—in that way Isak likes; in that way Isak used to not know existed; in that way that made him fall in love—before he emboldens it with little nips to Even’s lips and soft tongues against each other and tilted heads.

Even’s hands slip up his thighs to his hips and _oh._ Okay. Isak remembers he’s pleasantly fuzzy and coming down from his high. He remembers he’s straddling Even’s lap in his _bed_ and _kissing him._ He remembers daydreaming about this every waking moment of forever—and now it’s happening.

So Isak relaxes into it. He sets his full weight in Even’s lap and lets Even move his hands up under his shirt, tugging at the corners as if asking to slip it off.

Isak breaks the kiss and sits up, arms in the air as Even removes his shirt with clumsy hands and little laughs. Little laughs that make their way into the kiss when Isak leans back down again and runs his hands alongs Even’s cheeks and neck and collarbones—planting kisses there, too, when they get a little breathless.

When Isak’s working a soft spot on Even’s neck—Even a panting mess under him—Isak takes his hands and bunches up Even’s shirt at the bottom, glancing up at him when he breaks away only to scoot down and continue kissing his chest as Even obliges and removes it.

Isak’s skin is hot against Even’s when he leans back down flush against him, and his cheeks are flushed and feeling Even squirm below him is driving him insane—but they have all of the time in the world. So Isak makes sure to use it. He makes sure to touch every corner of Even’s collarbones. Every freckle on his chest. Palms flat and short fingernails lightly scratching their way down his shoulders and back and stomach. Lips and kisses and tiny bites making their way down.

Isak closes his eyes so he can focus on listening to Even breathing—stuttered and breathy with tiny little sounds that get higher and higher the lower Isak drags his lips. And Isak doesn’t know if he’s ever done this before—ever ignored himself and focused on ushering all of these noises out of someone else. Listening to how much they enjoy it and how much they want it and how it’s all Isak’s doing.

Like everything with Even, it’s nothing he’s ever experienced.

So when his mouth gets to the hem of Even’s pants, Even’s hands are already there to undo the button and shove them down.

It’s not that easy, though. Isak smirks when Even wrestles his feet out of his jeans and kisses his way back up Even’s chest. A pathetic sound escapes Even, and Isak shuts him up by pressing their lips together and parting them, urging Even to make that sound again right into his mouth.

“Isak,” Even begs around the spaces between their lips.

Isak’s not prepared to hear his name—low and slow and right into his own mouth from the man below him. It makes his heart tighten and his pants tighten and everything, really—everything is suddenly tight and ready to burst because it’s all finally _real._

Isak smiles into the kiss, rolling off and onto his side so he can touch Even—and it comes unexpectedly. One second Isak’s hands are squeezing Even’s shoulders and brushing his cheeks and digging into his hair—and the next a hand glides down and wraps around him.

Even breaks away and just _looks_ at Isak—studying his flushed face and wet lips and eyes dark with want. His gaze trails from every detail of Isak’s features down to his body and then finally, to Isak’s hand—watching Isak touch him.

Even makes another sound (god he’s kind of loud) and _alright._ Isak needs to get out of these pants.

He's also being a real big tease—which he decides only after maybe two seconds with his hand on Even and then breaks away. Even thrusts his hips lazily forward at the loss of contact—as if chasing the feeling.

“One second,” Isak laughs as he takes his own jeans off—sloppily and hurriedly and he’s really just a big horny mess right now. But he manages, and when he does, he rolls right back on top of Even with a kiss.

And _this_ feeling almost makes him black out—naked and lazily making out on Even’s bed. Hot skin and hungry, wandering hands and kisses too sloppy to land right. Dizzy heads from weed and lack of blood. Little movements down below that threaten to send Isak over the edge already. But it’s okay that it’s not perfect, because why should it be? It feels like everything he’s ever wanted and nothing he’s ever had.

And he may just love Even. He may just love the way he comes undone underneath him. He may just love the way he says Isak’s name. He may just love everything about him—how he laughs into kisses when Isak teases him, and how those laughs turn into moans when Isak _keeps_ teasing him. How his sparkly blue eyes sink low under his eyelids in what looks like pure ecstasy when Isak lowers himself again, finally giving Even what he wants as he takes him into his mouth without blinking an eye and hearing _that_ sound. It’s not low and deep or smooth and stoic like his voice—it’s high and broken around Isak’s name.

There’s fingers in his hair gripping and pulling lightly, and Even’s hips move up with Isak’s mouth.

Isak pulls away, kissing the inside of Even’s thighs, using a hand to spread them open a little farther and reaching up to test the waters.

When Even says (almost gasps, really) _yes,_ Isak thinks he might come on the spot.

Alright. Having sex with someone you like is fucking amazing, if Isak’s is being blunt. 

For the first time in, well, _ever,_ Isak’s not smashing someone’s face into a pillow with one hand and gripping their hip with the other as they bend over the bed.

No—Even’s long legs are bent up at the knee as he lays on his back, scooted all the way to the edge so Isak has enough room to lean over him and kiss him on the mouth every once in awhile while he’s inside him. He’s looking into Even’s eyes. At his face. Watching his lips part around the melodies as he sings Isak’s name over and over and over again. Watching his features scrunch up and soften out as he comes undone with the help of Isak’s hand after an embarrassingly short amount of time.

And when they’re done and Isak has a hard time grasping what actually happened, he presses their foreheads together to remember this is all real.

“What are we?” Isak asks, their bodies flush together and still damp with sweat and sticky with come—and he’s still _inside_ Even, actually—whose knees are bent up with calves resting on Isak’s shoulders; Even’s face is still frozen with closed eyes and deep breaths to calm himself down. It looks like he hasn’t really recovered yet. Isak kisses him on instinct (maybe to buy him some time—as if he is afraid of the answer) and this seems to surprise Even, who hums contently into the kiss like it’s the perfect way to end everything. It’s slow and soft and wet and when they break away, Isak detaches himself, scoots up, and buries his nose in Even’s neck as he lays against him.

“Hmm,” Even thinks, eyes still closed and stroking through Isak’s sweaty blonde curls—little by little coming back down to reality. “I think we’ve downgraded.”

Isak snaps his head to the side and looks up at Even. “Downgraded?” He asks.

“Yeah,” Even affirms, opening his eyes and tilting his head to plant another lazy kiss to Isak’s open, stunned mouth. “From fiancés to boyfriends.”

 

————

 

They spend all night in here—in boxers and Even’s sweatshirts with the hoods up, watching movies that Even gets way too into and Isak rolls his eyes at. Who cares, though—they spend half of the time kissing anyway with open, lazy mouths and half-hooded eyes that lead to wandering hands and little moans and more than a few happy endings.

And it’s all new, but also not really. The kisses aren’t new and talking isn’t new and the feeling isn’t new—but the contentment is. The belonging is. The mirrored _love_ is. Even feels like home, and there’s no way he wasn’t meant to stay here.

They’ll leave Even’s room eventually. It’s still safe, but Isak knows things won’t shatter or even threaten to once they step outside.

Because like all of the things Isak’s never known he could have, this time, he has a boyfriend— _Even,_ specifically. Who taught him kisses can be sweet. Who taught him touches can be, too. Who taught him people don’t come in one-size-fits-all packages and it’s okay to make mistakes—it’s okay to make them over and over again as long as you learn. And, most importantly, who taught him how to love.

Isak thinks of that word— _boyfriend_ —as he strokes Even’s blonde waves that are bouncing a little with each deep breath on his chest. Little snores in between as Isak’s own eyelids get heavy. He gets ahead of himself and thinks about one year from now. Two. Five. Ten. If they’ll still be boyfriends or something more than that. Where they will be and if love will still knock him over just as hard. He hopes so, and he also thinks it will.

He blindly reaches for the nightstand before he knows his eyes will close for the last time, pulling up the last message from his mom—finally with an answer.

> **ISAK:**  
>  Yes

And when he does close his eyes, hand paused in Even’s hair with a kiss to his waves before drifting off to sleep, he dreams of white, sandy beaches. White, snow capped mountains. White smoke in a room with white walls as two boys in love lay on white sheets and let sleep and love overtake them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more?? I’ve had so much fun writing this. The last chapter is literally just pure and absolute, unashamed fluff. And I also hope it takes you by surprise. :)
> 
> If you want—talk to me on [tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/) Follow the [playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/12168089246/playlist/0oz7ebwFRbSKcETZz5Ga75)


	7. Chapter 7

**1 MONTH LATER**

It’s Thursday.

Which means it’s _Isak? Is Even coming over to cook dinner?_ day—as decided by Eskild, who thinks after two random Thursdays in a row, something becomes a tradition.

So Isak nods his head and makes a mental note to never do anything ever again on two consecutive Thursdays.

But secretly? Isak loves it. It starts innocently—Eskild walking in on Isak and Even ignoring dinner burning on the stove and making out on the kitchen counter instead. Which, apparently, was for everyone, unbeknownst to both Isak and Even who give Eskild shiny lipped, ruined-hair half-smiles as they pop away from each other—only kind of listening to his rant about Elias coming over and _now there won’t be any food, Isak_ —but they ignore his last sentence completely as they go back to what’s important.

A.K.A. kissing each other.

And then it happens again _next_ Thursday, but this time Even actually makes dinner and tries to teach Isak how to chop a tomato, but that ends up just being hopeless.

“It’s too squishy,” Isak complains, tomato juice running down his forearms to his elbows as he holds his hands up in disgust—his upper lip curled in a snarky smile.

“You gotta—” Even starts, cutting himself off with a laugh as he tries to gather Isak’s mess of a tomato—is it even still a tomato anymore?—into something salvageable. “Maybe it is too squishy,” he concedes. “But you did the grocery shopping! Pick a better tomato!”

Isak picks up a mushy chunk—red, fleshy tomato dripping with water and seeds and hanging on by thin skin. “Pick this,” he says, being a brat and flinging it over to Even so it lands on his cheek, sticking there for a second before it falls down, just like Even’s jaw in fake offence.

“Did you just throw a tomato at me?” Even asks, not even waiting for an answer before he grabs another loose piece of from the cutting board and flicks it square on to Isak’s nose. “Like what they do in cartoons when they don’t like something? They throw tomatoes, Isak. That’s what they do.”

Isak only smiles—thin lips pressed together as his shoulders shake with his cheeky laugh. And he throws another piece of tomato at Even. It lands on his shirt this time, a little stain left there after he brushes it away with a smile on his face like he _couldn’t_ be any more insulted.

“So do you not like me, then?” Even sounds disbelieved, but it’s all just a game. He takes a step closer to Isak, jabbing a finger in his chest and asking for the dramatics of it.

“No,” Isak admits. “I don’t like you.” But he’s still smiling at Even, chin tipping upwards and eyes dropping low—his _give me a kiss_ face.

Which Even has a hard time saying no to. So with hands and arms and elbows sticky with tomato juice, Even closes the gap between them with a baby step and cups Isak’s cheeks in his hands, kissing his lips still and soft, letting the smiles breaking through do all the talking.

“Because I love you,” Isak admits, the first time these words have found themselves in the open air. The millionth time they’ve crossed his mind.

Even pulls back slightly, hands still on the warm skin of Isak’s face as he drags his thumbs over his soft cheeks, pulling them back a little. His blue eyes search—Isak’s eyelashes and eyebrows and freckles and finally, they burn into his own. Isak doesn’t know if he’s looking for the words. The right ones or the wrongs ones. Or maybe he’s just checking to see if Isak’s real at all.

But when Even does speak, Isak can hear that same declaration—the one he’s thought about so many times it’s created a new groove in his brain. “I love you,” Even says. Soft and deep. It’s not an echo or a response or a reply. It’s an affirmation.

And Isak fights back the stinging in his eyes when he shuts them and leans back up to connect with Even—lips a little hungrier and hands a little more desperate. Pulling at each other with that familiar urge to get as close as possible. “I love you,” Isak repeats when their heads tilt to the side to deepen the kiss, almost so he doesn’t forget, maybe, or almost because now that he’s said it, he can’t stop saying it. 

And Even feels the same way—hands tangling in Isak’s curls and eyes smashed shut and breathing heavy. “I love you.” Solidifying it.

Isak feels warm. A little prickle of orange and yellow. A hint of red.

 

**3 MONTHS LATER**

 

“Don’t worry,” Even consoles, placing one hand on Isak’s shoulder and the other on the car door before opening it and stepping out. “They already love you.” He snakes his fingers up through Isak’s curls with a little scratch—almost a ritual at this point.

Isak swallows the lump in his throat, nervous anyway. He thought maybe he’d calm down on the long ride here to Even’s hometown, but that seems to have just made it worse.

“They’re really excited to meet you, Isak,” Even smiles, leaning over to peck him on the lips quickly, one foot resting on the pavement and ready to go while he waits for Isak to feel comfortable enough to follow.

But Isak leans in again, asking for another kiss. This time, to reassure himself. And he makes sure Even doesn’t pull away as fast this time, letting safety seep through his lips in little reassuring affirmations when they part to deepen it so Isak can feel brave.

Because after kissing Even, Isak feels like he can do anything.

“You’re the first, by the way,” Even adds nonchalantly, as if to torture the butterflies in Isak’s stomach who have started to flutter again after those words. “I’ve never had anyone come meet my moms before.”

Even’s out of the car before Isak can protest.

And then it’s a flurry of embraces and greetings and smiles and coffees shoved into their hands before they can even enter the threshold of Even’s old home, which has walls dripping with mementos and photos and plants and _warmth._ It’s a home that’s been lived in. It’s a home that’s seen love and heartbreak. It’s a home that holds both memories and a future.

Isak fits right in like he’s never known anything else. Like the ancient kitchen table he’s sitting at has no idea he’s a stranger. Like the mug he’s drinking from hasn’t forgotten his name. Even’s moms already know a lot about Isak, but they ask anyways—which is just as nice and easy, because they ask the easy questions. They ask Isak what he’s studying. They ask Isak about his friends. They steer clear from questions about his past and even about how he met Even, and Isak whispers a small _thank you_ to his boyfriend (he still can’t get over the word) when they meet eyes over sips of coffee.

He’s not trying to be rude, but Isak has tuned out Even’s moms—because there’s blue eyes sparkling at him in the sunlight through the window panes, reflecting everything in brilliant whites and golds and rainbow hues. Even looks relaxed and warm and inviting, and it all just feels so easy. Isak knows he’s melting right into his chair—which Even gives a little kick after a minute—followed by a long arm reaching for his to squeeze their hands together and bring Isak back down to reality.

Which, for once, feels like a pretty nice place to be.

Isak feels lucky. Lush greens and royal blues. Flecks of gold.

 

**1 YEAR LATER**

 

Isak can’t help it. He’s breathing so hard and his head is swimming with air and he feels tingly all over—rutting his hips up into Even’s naked ones on top of him _just_ to get some friction. Which Even dodges—teasing him. And they really must be on the eleventh hour of teasing because Isak has had _enough._ He just wants to hop on Even’s lap already and sink down on him and watch his face melt into something miraculously on the border of cute and X-rated.

Okay, but how does Even _do_ that? It makes Isak want to simultaneously kiss his lips and moan his name right into them.

But Even’s having fun, he guesses—his hand smoothing over every inch of Isak’s skin except where Isak really wants him to. Even digs his short nails into the crevice of where Isak’s thigh meets his ass. Glides his fingers over where his hip and inner thigh converge. Traces patterns over his lower stomach and skillfully dodges all of Isak’s attempts to get him to _just fucking touch him, Jesus Christ, Even._

“Do you like that?” Even whispers lowly into Isak’s ear, causing his face to grow hot and for a shiver to be sent down his spine.

Isak arches his back up, ready to just throw Even over and get on top of him. And he and Even both very well know Isak’s capable of doing that—the stronger one of the two.

But Even likes control and Isak likes giving it to him—especially in bed like this.

Their fun is ruined, though—with shrieks and moans and grunts and slapping and… Elton John? Through the wall.

“I don’t like _that,”_ Isak huffs, wiping his face with both hands in frustration and rocking himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, his boner pretty much gone as he winces at a particularly high shriek (Eskild) followed by sharp and out of tune singing to Elton John (Elias).

“We could go to my place?” Even offers, laughing and glancing at the wall as if trying to look through it. 

Isak tries to look annoyed, but when Elias screams, _“in the ciiiircle of liiiife”_ as Eskild makes a rather impressive grunt, he can’t help but bounce his shoulders with a silent laugh and look over to Even with one raised eyebrow.

And then they laugh at themselves, sitting naked on Isak’s bed and listening to their respective roommates have obnoxiously loud, strangely disturbing sex.

“We can’t go to your place, though,” Isak sniffs his nose, standing up and searching for his boxers—finding Even’s first and throwing them at him.

There’s another loud moan, and Isak freezes with a scrunched up face as he lets out a deep breath, trying to not let himself get too annoyed.

“Why not?” Even asks, slipping his long legs into the fabric and hoisting them up, flopping on his back on Isak’s bed and covering his face with a pillow as Elias screams, _“and some of us sooooar to the staaaars.”_

“Because last time we were at your place, Yousef left a really passive aggressive note on the fridge and I haven’t been able to look him in the eyes since,” Isak explains. “And we weren’t even being that loud!”

Even gives Isak a once over—still standing in the middle of his room naked—squinting his eyes and pursing his lips in a smile. “You were being kind of loud,” he confesses, scrunching his nose up as he says so.

Isak rolls his eyes and continues searching his messy floor—how far could a pair of boxers been thrown? “I was not,” he defends, giving Even a sarcastic glare. “I am so good at being quiet. If anything, you were the loud one.”

“Me?” Even pokes his finger into his chest. “ _I_ was being loud? You were probably under me and begging me to—”

Fuck those boxers—Even teasing him is turning Isak on again. So Isak interrupts him and crosses the room in two big strides and sits on Even’s lap—wrapping his arms around the back of his neck and pressing their foreheads together before pecking him softly on the lips. 

Elton John continues softly through the wall, but the moaning and singing and slapping have stopped.

“We could always make a bet,” Isak suggests over another kiss, squeezing his thighs over Even’s and setting his full weight in his lap—letting Even know with a soft grind of his hips that just this—just being with Even and kissing him is getting him ready again.

“Oh yeah?” Even teases, one of his hands on Isak’s hips snaking down in-between his legs and squeezing Isak’s full length a few times until he is _absolutely_ ready again. This causes Isak to break away from the kiss and moan pathetically into Even’s chest, biting down on the skin of his collarbones to keep it from getting any louder. “You’re already losing,” Even whispers into Isak’s ear, his lips brushing the skin there before he starts sucking on Isak’s neck and jerking Isak off in time with his tongue that’s making soft patterns on his throat.

Isak groans when Even picks up the pace, melting into his lap and thrusting lazily into his hand while he grinds his hips over the tent in Even’s boxers. He feels dangerously close already. “I don’t want to yet,” Isak breathes, although it’s really not up to him—Even sucking a spot on the skin where Isak’s neck meets his chest—his hand fast and constant. Isak couldn’t pull away if he tried—his whole body pliant and heavy on top of Even with eyelids fluttering closed and teeth gritting down. He’s about a second away—

—but does find the energy to spring off of Even in absolute frustration when Elton John grows louder through the walls and Eskild’s and Elias’s grunts and groans and terrible signing start up again for round two.

“That’s it,” Isak grumbles, grabbing a pair of running shorts from the floor and not even bothering with the boxers this time. He’s about to make his way through the door to go knock furiously on Eskild’s, but Even stops him—still sitting on the bed and using a long arm to reach out and grab Isak’s hand.

“I’ve been thinking,” Even starts, pulling Isak back down on to him in the same position, only this time with Isak’s legs swung over to one side as he sits in his lap. “About…”

“About…?” Isak repeats, glancing with a grimace from the wall behind him practically vibrating with noises to Even, calming down from his frustration almost immediately when he meets soft and serious blue eyes. 

“We wouldn’t have to worry about whose place is empty and whose roommates are home… or whose roommates have guests,” he jerks his head back to the wall as Elias makes a particularly impressive grunt followed by an even more impressive whine from Eskild. “If we had our own place.”

Isak raises his eyebrows, the corners of his lips curling up with them as he tilts his head playfully and messy, golden curls give a cute bounce.

“Think about it!” Even bounces him on his knee once, causing him to giggle. “Do you even remember the last time we spent the night in our own beds, by ourselves?”

Isak looks up to the ceiling, licking his bottom lip. “Sleeping… by…. myself….” he trails with sarcasm, as if those words in that order are absolutely foreign. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Even shoves him lightly, laughing. “I’m being serious!” He finds Isak’s hand with his own, taking his time to link their fingers together one by one and giving a tight, long squeeze when he’s done. “I’m being serious,” he repeats, slower and longer and looking right into Isak’s eyes. He brushes the skin on the top of Isak’s hand lightly with his thumb.

“You want to move in together?” Isak asks, almost in disbelief.

This might be a cute moment if the howling and the singing and the slapping of skin on skin wasn’t painfully loud in the background—but Isak may as well be deaf. All he can see is blue eyes. All he can feel is warmth. All he can hear is the soft seriousness of Even’s voice.

All he can _do_ is pinch himself to remind him this is his life. This is real. 

“I want to be with you as much as I can,” Even affirms, giving Isak comfort and space around the words to let him make his own decision.

Isak softens into Even—keeping one pair of hands linked and taking his other to hold Even’s face as he kisses him. He’s amazed at how every new kiss with Even immediately crawls to the top of his _favorite kisses_ list, but each one seems to replace the last, and Isak’s content with the knowledge that it might be like that for the rest of his life. He feels lucky to be in love, especially so with Even.

So the answer is obvious, of course, as if this kiss—his _favorite_ kiss (so far)—wasn’t enough. “I would love to move in together,” Isak whispers when he pulls away. “I love being with you.”

Even smiles, and Isak is always taken aback at how blue eyes can look so warm, like there’s a fire inside of them. They’re not comparable in these moments to the ocean or to the sky or to ice—no. They’re the steady blue flame of a gas burning stove. The hot, bright flare of a supernova.

“I love being with you, too,” Even echoes, solidifying the words with a kiss.

“You’re going to get sick of me,” Isak teases, brushing his hand over Even’s face when they pull away—his thumb over his eyebrow. His pointer finger on the tip of his nose. 

Even scoffs, his hair bouncing and his head jerking back with an amused look. “I could never, _ever_ get sick of you,” he smiles. Another kiss.

Isak’s eyes go wide, as if he’s had an idea. “Well now that just seems like a challenge,” he laughs, waggling his eyebrows and tilting his head with a giggle when Even looks scared for a moment. But Isak reassures him with a kiss—this one again climbing to the top of the list.

But reality comes knocking, or, _screaming_ once again as Elton John reminds them two boys are busying getting freaky in the room over—totally loud and unashamed.

Isak hops off of Even and reaches under his bed for his laptop, waving his hand for Even to follow him out the door and into the kitchen.

“The search starts now,” Isak smiles, completely serious. He freezes for a second in the doorway once Even finds his pants, a realization sweeping across his features in the form of a bright smile. “I can’t wait to walk around naked,” he nods to himself, Even on his tail with a loud laugh—smacking his ass on their way out the door.

 

————

 

“Tada!” Even pulls a joint from behind his ear and joins the circle of boys sitting cross legged on the floor—pizza boxes and beers and ash trays in the middle.

Jonas makes grabby hands once Even lights it and takes a hit, Mahdi waiting patiently beside him and Magnus and Julian ignoring everything while they make out—Julian practically crawling into Magnus’s lap.

“Oi,” Isak warns as he inhales, taking the joint from Jonas when he’s done. “Stop being so gross—you two can’t be the first to christen this apartment, that’s against the rules.”

They might as well be deaf. And void of any shame, because Magnus’s hands are sliding up the backside of Julian’s shirt, and although Isak can’t see their tongues lapping against each other, he surely can hear it.

“Oi!” He repeats a little louder, slapping Julian on the back and begrudgingly handing him the joint when he slides back to the floor, wiping his face and not breaking eye contact with Magnus.

“They’re almost as bad as you two,” Mahdi laughs, opening one of the pizza boxes in front of them.

Isak would argue with him, but it’s kind of true. And he’s also too tired and too happy and too thankful to care—after a long day of not only packing, hauling, and unpacking, which the boys _really_ didn’t have to help with (and Isak almost died of embarrassment when Jonas stumbled upon a certain… box—opening it and closing it immediately with a scarred face), he’s just thankful to be in the vicinity of weed and pizza and his friends and his boyfriend. All while cloaked in that new apartment smell—fresh paint and waxed floors.

It’s small. Very small. Besides a kitchen and a bathroom it’s just one big room. The _livingdiningsleepingroom,_ Even calls it. Honestly, though, that doesn’t matter—Isak could have moved into a cardboard box with Even and still be over the moon.

“Do you know why you two are worse?” Mahdi prompts, breaking Isak out of his stupor with a mouthful of pizza. “Because of this shit,” he points between Isak and Even. “This weird staring at each other shit.”

Isak’s eyes break away from Even, who he’s realized he’s been admiring for the last thirty seconds. Admiring what, exactly? Who knows anymore. His face and his laugh and his voice and just… _Even_ have been meshing together so close lately that Isak can’t think of just one thing he loves about him without every memory flooding back. It’s impossible to pick just one thing, because every part he loves bleeds through into all the other parts of Even.

He sighs fondly while Even laughs deep and loud at one of Jonas’s jokes, love flooding his veins and coursing through them. Even notices him, and in a quick movement slides his arm around the back of Isak’s waist to tuck him in closer, resuming his conversation.

Isak rests his head on Even’s shoulder—sleepy eyes trying hard not to close as Even’s shoulders bounce with laughter. He attempts to look disgusted at Magnus and Julian shotgunning the joint across the circle from them, but if he’s honest with himself, it’s kind of cute. Magnus’s right hand limply gripping the joint between two fingers—the other on Julian’s crossed thigh while he blows smoke into his mouth. They finish with a sloppy kiss they smile into, and yeah, it’s hard to be disgusted at love now that Isak knows what it feels like.

“Even,” Isak mumbles, turning his head into Even’s neck and closing his eyes. “I’m tired.”

Even pats the top of his head, fingers lingering in his curls and combing through the knots that have formed from moving and sweat. But he continues his conversation with Jonas—Mahdi joining in.

Isak isn’t listening. All he can hear is the hum of Even’s deep voice. The little breaths in his throat. He repeats himself. “Even. I’m tired.”

Even shrugs his shoulder up to lift Isak’s face—met with droopy, red eyes and a sleepy, grumpy smile. “Go lie down, baby,” he whispers, tossing his head back to the bed behind him. “No one will mind. I’ll be there in a second.”

So Isak lifts himself from the floor, taking in the scene around him—Magnus and Julian high off their asses and feeding each other pizza. Jonas, Mahdi, and Even engrossed in conversation and sparking another joint—Jonas nodding and rummaging for the controllers to start FIFA up again now that they’re almost done eating.

And really, thankful is such a weak word.

Isak flops on the bed—back first on top of the blankets before he rolls over on his side with his back to the boys. His breathing low and even and content.

When he finds himself in that intermittent stage of drowsy—the one where he’s not quite asleep yet but not fully awake, he feels a familiar weight sink into the other side of the mattress.

Even sits down next to him, legs in front of him and back up against the headboard—and he shakes Isak’s shoulder with his free hand, letting him know to turn over and rest his head in his lap.

Which Isak does—curls settling on the fabric of Even’s soft hoodie with an arm draped over his hips and legs tangling below. Isak hears the familiar sound of FIFA on the tv. The comfortable hum of the voices of his friends. Scents of pizza and sweet smoke and _home._ And he closes his eyes—a quick kiss to his forehead before he falls asleep to the light bouncing of Even’s arms and curses under his breath as he loses to Jonas.

When Isak wakes up, not sure if it’s hours or minutes later, it’s to his pants being taken off.

“I just don’t want you to fall asleep in your jeans, Is,” Even whispers, undressing him. The room is dark now, and quiet. It smells like clean air and lemon furniture wipes. His bare skin is cold against their new sheets.

Even gets under the duvet next to Isak—the only familiar thing on this bed. His skin is hot to the touch, so Isak turns on his side and snuggles into his chest—letting the warmth consume him as fingers snake through his hair.

It feels safe in here, and it occurs to Isak that this feeling isn’t new. He’s reminded of all of the times he’d been left hanging back in that grey area—back in those shadows of doubt that made him scared to leave Even’s room in the past. But maybe it wasn’t the walls that made him feel safe.

It’s Even. Even makes him feel safe.

Safe and complete and loved.

So although this is a new apartment, a new bed, and a new room—it feels more like home than Isak’s ever known.

“I like our new bed,” Even laughs softly. There’s sleep in his voice, and just the sound of it alone makes Isak sink deeper into the sheets. Deeper into his pillow and heavy against Even, who’s holding him tight.

“As long as you’re in it,” Isak mumbles, smiling and placing a kiss to whatever of Even is closest. It feels like his collarbone. “Then I don’t care.”

Isak feels calm. Deep blues and milky greens. A few pricks of purple.

 

**3 YEARS LATER**

 

Isak sees his mom wave to him from the front row of cute, white fold-out chairs neatly arranged into two sections along the aisle. The grass is lush and green—smells like it’s just been mowed. The sun is high in the sky but not hot. Little white, puffy clouds paint the blue sky and obscure it every once in awhile. It’s a perfect spring day.

“This is taking forever,” Linn pouts beside Isak, her grey dress the exact same shade as Isak’s suit. 

He elbows her in the side with a scrunch of his nose, bending his arm back to tickle her, causing her to giggle. “They’re dramatic,” Isak whispers over to her with a smile when she calms down. “Did you really think this was going to start on time?”

“One can only hope,” Linn sighs, swatting Isak’s hand away with a smile.

He catches Even looking at him across the small platform they’re on with the tiny gazebo between and slightly behind them, draped in white flowers. (Isak doesn’t really care about any of this stuff, but he will admit Sana did a damn good job.) And he raises his eyebrow, as if challenging Isak, who just can’t help but smile. Isak wishes Even were standing right next to him, but he guesses that’s the drawback when your respective best friends get married to each other—you have to be their best men.

He also looks _really_ good in that suit, so Isak might just have to rip him away from the reception later and find the emptiest bathroom he can (emphasis on emptiest—he’s not terribly picky).

After that small moment, Isak smiles back at his mom, and then everyone's’ heads trail back towards the end of the procession as the music starts.

Eskild and Elias walk hand in hand—side by side—both in white suits, and Eskild is already teary-eyed.

Isak should pay attention. Should watch them slip rings onto each others fingers; should listen to them exchange vows; should clap along after they kiss.

And Isak’s happy for them, he truly is, but green eyes are locked on blue, and Even’s small, charming smile is mirroring Isak’s across the way.

It’s that same look from the cabin—wood walls and big glass windows. Snow falling down like a safety net around them and cloaking that whole evening in comfort, confusion, wanting, and white. Only that feels like forever ago, now—it feels like a place Isak hardly remembers. But he does remember that moment. That look after those words rang true—that there is a person out there. _His_ person. A person he can meet eyes with across the room (or, in this instance, across a wedding gazebo) and understand with no words.

And that person to Isak is Even. 

And that person to Even is Isak.

So when Elias and Eskild finally kiss—tears in both of their eyes and hands held together in front of them, Isak’s still looking at Even. Still letting white suits and white chairs and white clouds and white flowers mimic that snow. Letting the safety of the cabin dissolve into the open air he now finds himself in. Letting a memory from three years ago ring true in his ears as his eyes search for that person.

And in this moment, he finds him.

 

————

 

Somehow, someway, Eskild’s side of the family is already drunk. Or maybe they’ve been drunk. But not the annoying kind of drunk, the happy kind of drunk. The kind that yes, maybe makes them ramble a little too long with no particular destination to end their train of thought, but also the kind that’s deserved in the face of this celebration.

Maybe they’re just surprised Eskild got married at all? Isak sure is, although it’s definitely pleasantly so.

Which is great, kind of, because most everyone is loud and happy and talkative—and that means Isak doesn’t have to be. Instead, he gets to laugh along and eat Mamma Bakkoush’s delicious food and hold Even’s hand under the table.

They did a good job transforming the lawn from wedding ceremony to wedding reception. The same small, white chairs have now been arranged neatly at circular tables, and the gazebo has been taken down to make the platform it was on into a dancefloor. Fuzzy, white string lights hang wherever they can, and candles top every table to make the sinking sun seem to last a little longer.

Pappa Bakkoush gives a teary-eyed toast to start the evening off once everyone’s one plate and one drink in, and not long after everyone is getting up for seconds and thirds—more impromptu toasts and speeches in-between. From Sana. From Even. Even one from Linn.

And now Even’s kicking Isak’s leg under the table.

“What?” Isak kicks him back, semi-annoyed but too fond to _really_ be. He has a fork full of something delicious right about to enter Even’s mouth, but jerks it away after another kick. He doesn’t deserve it anymore.

Even eyes Isak’s champagne glass suspiciously, as if Isak is suppose to know what to do with that information. Another kick.

“Even,” Isak closes his eyes, opening them back up to see a smug smile on his boyfriend's lips. His hair pushed back. His eyes sparkling. That fucking suit. _Another kick—fuck, Even._

It’s impossible to say no to him.

“Just…” Isak trails. “Give me a moment.”

But Even ignores him, grabbing the fork still in Isak’s hand, clearing it in one big bite, and then tapping it loudly against Isak’s champagne glass.

He could kill him, he really could.

But suddenly, all eyes are over on Isak, who stands nervously at all the attention. Even shoves his champagne flute in his hand, lifting Isak’s elbow with an eyeroll to lift it up into a toast.

Isak finds Eskild’s eyes at the next table over. He puts his hand on his heart and Isak _swears_ he sees him mouth, _awh, pretty boy!_ with an endeared pout of the lips.

Which is enough to make him smile and shake off the nerves.

Isak tips his glass a little higher in the air, and everyone’s have joined him there. He finishes off his drink. “To Elias,” he starts, “and Eskild,” he finishes. A little softer. A little fonder. “May you see love everywhere. And may you let your love been seen.”

There’s some clapping, but Isak stays standing. He’s not finished—he turns to Elias. “You have one of the best men on the planet,” Isak says to him, and Elias turns to Eskild and plants a kiss to his cheek like he already knows. “I have no doubt that Eskild helped you find your way in life. And you’re certainly not the only one he’s helped, but you are the most important. That’s just what he does. That’s just who he is. Eskild,” Isak shifts his eyes over to him. “Thank you.”

 

————

 

“Can you hold me like this?” Isak asks—breathless as Even hoists him up and pins him against the bathroom stall door—gripping the underside of his thighs and letting Isak lock his legs around Even’s waist. His pants are dangling off of one leg. He’s only got one shoe on. Even’s fully clothed unless you count his pants pulled down to his mid thighs.

“Yeah,” Even kisses him, situating Isak by bringing him closer and letting him sink down right on his dick. Slowly—so he can see Isak’s face melt with every inch. “At least for a little while,” he laughs, kissing Isak again and holding him tight against the door so he can start to move.

And it feels fucking heavenly. Long, slow slides in and out—Even’s face strained with the tension of holding Isak, yet simultaneously softening with the pleasure. Isak doesn’t really have to do anything besides keep his legs tight—letting his full weight rest against the stall door and Even’s hands under him, which have found their way to his ass. All he has to do is enjoy.

And fuck, he really is. He steals kisses from Even’s open mouth—sloppy and rushed and desperate to keep him quiet. (But the noises slip out, anyway.)

Isak’s face tightens with every thrust in and softens with every pull out—and he can tell it’s driving Even wild. So he accentuates them with lip bites. Dark eyes. Dirty words. And Isak just lets the slow sensation of every long push in and out of him build until he can’t help but whisper, “Even. More.”

The stall door rattles when Even gives him just that—holding Isak really tight against it so he can go faster without losing momentum. 

Since Even’s hands are preoccupied with holding Isak up, Isak makes sure to put his own to good use as this feelings builds fast and hard. Right now there’s one in his own hair, pulling a little as his eyes roll back and his mouth drops down in an _O_ shape—his chin hitting his chest as his neck goes weak, but snapping up again to look at Even—whose eyes are burning into him dark and wild. Isak takes his other hand and slips two fingers in Even’s parted mouth, pushing down a little on the back of his tongue.

Even’s lips close around them and pulls back slowly—his tongue flicking the end of Isak’s fingertip as he pops off. Isak pushes them in again, and Even sucks in time with his thrusts—every one hitting Isak in just that right spot, causing pathetic sounds to spill from his lips at this feeling coupled with this sight.

“Fuck,” Isak whispers, gagging Even one last time before taking his fingers back and slipping them down Even’s chin and neck—his mouth a pretty, shiny, and swollen red. “You look so good in that suit.”

“How good?” Even teases, slowing down. He's trying to sound smooth but his voice is absolutely wrecked. 

Isak whines a little at the sudden lack of speed that he’s gotten to, so Even picks up again, his first hard thrust causing Isak to slap a hand over his own mouth to do a bad job hiding his loud moan. 

Isak’s eyes are closed and his head is swimming when Even keeps going. “So good, I’m going to come,” he stutters through his hand—all of his senses hindering for a moment besides the feeling of nerves curling in his lower belly. He sinks his other hand down to his dick and pulls a few times, and then everything is black for a second as he let’s go—and then white as he opens his eyes and sees Even collapse into him, his grip loosening as Isak’s back slides down the stall door and they kiss gross and happy on the floor.

 

————

 

“Pretty boy,” Eskild taps Isak’s shoulder, his inflection high and happy—the way it always is when he calls Isak that.

Isak peels his forehead off of Even’s; snakes his fingers out of his, too. They’ve stopped swaying to the slow music on the dancefloor, and Isak turns his head over his shoulder to face Eskild with a small smile once they meet eyes.

“May I have this dance?” Eskild waves his arm, extending his hand to Isak dramatically and glancing to Even next, as if asking permission.

Even smiles, pecking Isak on the cheek before departing and leaving Isak alone with Eskild. In a small movement with small smiles, Isak joins one hand with his new partner’s and finds his waist with the other, stepping slowly in time as the song changes.

Eskild’s loosened his bowtie. His eyes are a little low and his voice is a little bubbly from too much champagne. His forehead is also a little sweaty, and Isak has a feeling it isn’t from dancing, seeing as he hasn’t spotted Eskild or Elias for about the last thirty minutes.

They dance for a few moments, and Isak takes in everyone around him—something that’s nearly impossible to do when he’s with Even, who steals all of his attention. Yousef is dancing with Sana. Elias with Linn. Isak sees his mom dancing with Even. The night has calmed down—everyone’s ties are undone. Heels are abandoned. Plates full of half-eaten desserts lie forgotten on tables while everyone tries to drink the last of their drinks.

“Isak,” Eskild finally says, squeezing his hand so Isak will turn to look at him. His eyes are watery. “Thank you.”

Isak bounces his head back, curls following. He’s never really noticed how much taller than Eskild he is, and in this moment, it seems even more so. “Thank you... for what?” Isak asks with a little laugh. Teeth poking out from under his cupid bow in that signature smile he uses when he’s confused.

“For everything,” Eskild clarifies, as if Isak should already know. “For supporting me. For not pushing Elias. I know you helped him, if he hasn’t told you that already. If it weren’t for you, we might not be celebrating tonight.”

Isak scoffs. “Yes you would,” he assures, dragging out the beginning and shaking his head at Eskild like he should know better. “You would,” he repeats a little more seriously, breaking eye contact as they sway and looking around again. At the sinking sun. At the stars starting to dot the sky. “And I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

Eskild takes his hand off of Isak’s shoulder and swats him playfully in the middle of the chest. “Never again,” he warns with one finger up in Isak’s face before it returns to his shoulder, squeezing it before it settles. “You’ve thanked me a million times, and I think we should…”

Isak waits for him to finish, but it’s clear that one more word might make him choke—his eyes already threatening to spill with tears.

“We should…?” Isak prompts, cocking his head to the side with a little smile. A reassuring squeeze of the hands to let him know it’s okay. Everything is ok. Everything is _more_ than okay.

“We should,” Eskild starts again, pausing. “We should agree that you’ve needed me, and I’ve needed you. And that no one’s struggle requires more _thank yous_ than the other. You don’t owe me anything, Isak. Just like I don’t owe you anything. I’m your guru because I want to be. You’re my little baby gay. My baby Jesus. My pretty boy. And I love you like no one else—like my brother. Like my best friend.”

Isak’s an easy crier, so it’s no surprise he hasn’t even realized a tear is running down his cheek before Eskild wipes it away with his thumb, his own eyes red and watery. He doesn’t need to repeat it for Eskild to know he feels the same.

But Isak does lean in, breaking their hands apart and sliding his arms around Eskild’s sides in a hug. A long hug. The kind they’ve shared before on only a few occasions. Only this time, it’s not a healing hug. No one needs anything from this embrace—no one takes anything from one another. It’s just a reminder—an _I’m here._ An _I’m always here._ A _thank you._

“And you’re next, you know,” Eskild changes the subject in that signature way he does when Isak slips out of the embrace and returns to their dancing position—it’s one of the things Isak likes best about him. Nothing ever really ends on a bad note. Or, in this case, a sappy one. He throws his head over to Even, Isak’s following.

Isak just rolls his eyes back over to Eskild, shoving him slightly and coaxing a laugh from him.

“I’m serious,” Eskild continues, raising an eyebrow. “You two are…” he trails, looking over at Even again.

“Finish your sentences, _guru,”_ Isak warns, waving his hand in front of Eskild’s face to bring him back to reality.

“You two are something else,” he concludes with a little nod, eyes still on Even. “He makes you happy.” It’s not a question.

Isak doesn’t look over at Even this time. He doesn’t need to. But he does study Eskild’s face—full of hope and joy as he realizes his eyes have wandered over to Elias, his own happiness.

“He does,” Isak agrees, still swaying.

“So have you thought about it?” Eskild returns to meet his gaze, his face cheeky now. Playful and teasing like the Eskild Isak usually sees.

Isak scrunches his face. “Thought about what?”

An eyeroll—Eskild is not impressed. “Popping the Q! Tying the knot! Saying ‘I do!’” He exclaims, maybe a little too loudly while he bounces on his heels.

The song stops. It shifts into something more upbeat, so Isak removes his hands from Eskild, who does the same. But they continue to stand just as close. And Isak doesn’t say anything. No yes or no—he just looks at Eskild. But after all of these years, Eskild can read Isak like a book, so he doesn’t _need_ a yes or a no. He can almost see it painted on Isak’s face.

“Go get your man,” Eskild beams, jerking his head to the side where he can see Even approaching from the corner of his eye.

But Isak’s already spotted him.

Isak feels ambitious. Rich purples and sultry reds. Streaks of silver.

 

**4 YEARS LATER**

 

“Why did you want to come here?” Even asks, trading Isak a to-go cup full of coffee for a brown-bag lunch as they sit down on the park bench.

“It’s close to your work,” Isak replies, popping a grape into his own mouth and holding one over to Even, who squints his eyes before plucking it right from Isak’s fingers with his teeth.

(It’s not.)

“And it’s a beautiful day!” Isak continues, gesturing to the dull, grey sky.

(It’s not.)

Even’s onto him, Isak can tell. They never do stuff like this—eat picnic lunches in the non-existent time they have between Even’s client calls and Isak’s rotationals at the vet. But Isak asked, so Even answered—no questions. Isak’s just praying he doesn’t quite remember where they are—it’s not like they’ve been back here since. But, well, it is _Even_ —who ended up booking a goddamn vacation to Iceland over Easter break because _we can’t lie, Isak._ Who made them watch _Atonement_ on their first anniversary. Who almost gave Isak a heart attack driving to his mom’s cabin a year after that in a blizzard just to cuddle up cozy on the couch and drink hot chocolate with peppermint Schnapps. 

So, yeah, he probably knows _exactly_ where they are.

So Isak’s next best hope is to just pray Even doesn’t know what they’re _doing_ here.

It’s not like Isak had to think twice about it. As soon as he started asking Elias for ideas, he just slapped Isak on the back of the head. And _duh._ It doesn’t need to be big or fancy or anything special.

It’s special because it means something to the both of them. It’s special because Isak knows it will make Even smile. It’s special because this is where it all started.

But Isak is nervous. His throat is dry and he really shouldn’t have drank that double Americano, because the caffeine is making his palms sweat and shake. But he can’t say no to Even when he comes here to meet Isak on his lunch break with one in a to-go cup for him—because it’s Isak’s _favorite._

(It’s not.)

But that’s okay. He drinks it because Even got it for him and it makes Even happy.

These nerves have made him pat his pocket a million times just to make sure it’s still in there—hasn’t fallen out or anything, because that really would just be his luck.

They dissipate, though, when Even takes a messy bite of the sandwich Isak just unwrapped for him and he remembers he’s in love. In love with Even and his skeptical fondness for everything. In love with his pretentious yet questionable taste in movies and music. In love with the disaster that is his punctuality. In love with his messy eating habits. In love with his body. In love with his mind.

In love with everything about him.

So Isak doesn’t really think about anything else as Even talks through his food—something about how he hasn’t picked up his guitar in ages and he really wants to start again, but that means he needs to get new strings or something.

Isak doesn’t think about anything besides how cute Even is as his jaw drops when Isak gets off the bench, sinking down to one knee before him.

Isak doesn’t think about anything besides Even’s surprised and coy smile after he says, “I have a very important question for you,” in a mockery of Even’s low baritone.

Isak doesn’t think about anything besides Even’s beautiful eyes starting to water as he pulls a small velvet box from his pocket.

Isak doesn’t think about anything besides Even’s soft, low voice barreling through the word _yes_ before Isak can even finish his sentence. “Will you marry me?”

Isak doesn’t think about anything besides how in love he is with Even as the man of his dreams stands from the bench and kisses him in a rush. Lips in wide smiles and wet eyes and hands on cheeks.

Isak doesn’t think about anything besides how Even showed him what love is as he slips the ring on his finger.

Isak doesn’t think about anything besides Even as they kiss—smiley and happy and so in love. There’s no one around. It’s starting to rain a little. But it’s perfect.

Isak feels ecstatic. Electric yellows and neon greens. A trace of pink.

 

**5 YEARS LATER**

 

“Isn’t it bad luck to spend the night together before the wedding?” Even asks, tracing his finger down Isak’s spine under the covers.

“I don’t care,” Isak mumbles, turning over to face him. “I can’t sleep without you.” He tilts his head up and asks for a kiss, which turns mushy and gooey and sleepy.

Even’s voice seems a little scared. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

“Are _you?”_ Isak echos the question back, sitting up a little.

Even answers by placing his cold feet on Isak’s thighs and making him howl in both surprise and laughter. “Of course I am,” Even reassures, trying to place his feet higher on Isak’s belly to _really_ get him. “Just making sure you’re ready to put up with this for the rest of your life,” he finishes with a laugh, tucking Isak in closer when he calms down.

Isak gives in, but it’s all a trick, of course, because after he’s gotten _just_ comfy enough for _just_ a period of believable time, he’s pinching Even’s sides, causing him to buckle his long legs and arms in on himself with laugher.

“The real question is,” Isak wrestles Even over, dodging his swats to get him away before pinning Even on his back, “are you?”

Even’s breaths are shallow with giggles and deep in his lungs before he calms down, that wide smile with big teeth and crinkly eyes beaming up at Isak—one of his favorite sights in the universe.

“Oh,” Even pants, freeing his pinned arms from Isak and gliding them down his sides. “I actually don’t think I can spend the rest of my life _without_ this.”

Isak kisses him. Frantic at first just because those words play a sweet melody right on his heartstrings, but turning soft after a moment.

“Isak.” Even’s voice is hushed and patient through the kiss. He’s not asking. He’s not stating. Isak’s not quite sure what he’s doing with his name.

“My best friend.”

Isak hums in question, pulling away and looking Even in the eyes, a million butterflies in his stomach when he sees the serious yet simple expression on Even’s face. They’re slower now, with the time. Their wings beat without that fervor they used to, but Isak’s delighted they still stir up every once in awhile after five years.

“The man of my dreams.”

And reality hits Isak like a meteor: hard and fast and out of fucking nowhere. Even is starting his vows.

Because of course he is. _God forbid_ Even would confess his love in a deep or profound way in front of an audience tomorrow. Not when they’ve already had to do that a million times before. Not when they could share it now, alone together.

Oh, it feels like a punch to the gut. But the good kind, if that’s such a thing. The kind that knocks all of the air out of Isak to make room for something else. Because how important is air, really, when Isak has Even?

“I promise to hand over control, sometimes, when my gut tells me you have the right answer.”

He’s starting big, and Isak takes his hands as they lie side by side, bare chests turned towards each other and floppy messes of golden waves and curls on the pillows.

“I promise to love you on your bad days. I promise to love you on _my_ bad days.” Even hasn’t broken eye contact with Isak, and it almost feels too intense—too much. But the words burrow somewhere deep in Isak’s soul, and he owes it to Even to meet his gaze and let it burn like fire on the way through.

“I promise to be cliché always,” Even laughs at that, and Isak’s heart swells—because he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I promise to want something from you, because the thought of you thinking no one ever does breaks my heart. And it will be annoying. I’ll _make_ it annoying—but I’ll always be here—wanting something from you.”

Isak’s throat swells. His skin chills. His eyes grow hot and wet with every blink. And Even’s gaze is so intense—so far into every cell of Isak that he’s glad this is happening right here and now, and he’s glad Even always seems to know exactly what to say and do to make sure Isak’s comfortable and content.

“I promise to answer every time you ask.”

A kiss. Isak’s _favorite_ kiss, and something tells him this one will stay at the top of his list for awhile. Even’s lips are chapped. Their noses bump into each other at an uncomfortable angle due to their position on the bed. His hands can’t cup both of Even’s cheeks the way he likes, so one of them tangles awkwardly at the waves on the top of Even’s head. It’s far from perfect, but maybe that’s why it’s his favorite.

Isak feels _love._ And everything is vivid in color.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright now go listen to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=onO-nB7UOmk) because it's a literal JAM and totally the anthem for this last chapter and you're going to listen to it and feel all warm and happy and kick-ass.
> 
> Anyways, follow me on [tumblr](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/) and scream at me there.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, lovelies, this was so fun to write. Comments and kudos always make my heart smile. ❤️


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